The Victors of Nobility
by Besosforpesos
Summary: Hermione is a cynical runes researcher-turned-muggle scientist who has isolated herself from the wizarding world post-war. Malfoy enlists her help in curing his son's rare disease. And Harry struggles in his role as a family man, against his ambition as an auror. A cynical view of the post-war HP universe. Scientist!Hermione. DM/HG pairing. M for language and sex.
1. Prologue

**_DISCLAIMER:_**_ **All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

**EXCERPT:**

**_"You're annoying," he continued quietly, not even bothering with adopting his famous Malfoy sneer. "You don't know when to shut up sometimes and your voice can be quite... grating. You're smart, but you've lost your drive. If you weren't so broken in here-" he pointed to his heart, "You could be brilliant up here." He pointed to his temple. _****A Post-War short story dealing with shattered morality and psyche following the war at Hogwarts. Slightly AU, DM/HG, Current rating of T (for language, suggestive themes) with the eventual rating of M (for sex, language) in mind.**

**A story where romance, friendship, psychology, folklore, magic, and (pseudo-) science combine.**

**Please kindly R&amp;R! :D**

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_The thing about war_, Hermione decided, just as a piece of burnt rubble floated down the billows of grey and down onto her soot-covered trainers, _the thing about war is that it is_. She shifts her feet, swirling a pattern of ashes, wide and circular, and then a triangle around it, and then a line, slashed suddenly, down the center, like a stab of a wand or of a knife- same thing really. _That it is never as simple as its cause_.

"Idiots, really," she mused aloud. She watched as a group of young boys squabbled over the belongings of a corpse laying not ten feet away.

"What's that, Hermione?" asked the young man standing at her side. He was always standing at her side.

"Nothing," she muttered, not wanting to explain to him her thoughts. She has had enough of that, really. "Just thinking about the Order. Voldemort. The whole lot of us."

She was lucky he didn't press her for more.

He was lucky she hadn't killed him.


	2. Where the Hat Went Wrong

**Four years later**

The shrieking of the teapot instantly roused her. Groggily, Hermione stood up to stretch and then scramble to the kitchen, tripping over various boxes and useless Muggle things like skillets and fans and all kinds of rubbish she didn't need but were on a discount. It was rather uncharacteristic of her, really, to have left a mess strewn all about like this. But she was far too busy to care.

She turned off the gas stove, relieved the horrible screeching had stopped, and poured herself a cup of tea. Chamomile and honey, just how she liked it. The familiar bitter-sweetness filled her throat, reminding her of its comforts during the war. When there were rations. When there was heartbreak, and fear, and heart-pounding anxiety. The chamomile always helped.

She looked around her new flat, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the very plain, slightly moldy walls. It turned out that the conversion of galleons and sickles and knuts to Muggle pounds was far, far below her expectations, and her promised compensatory galleons, the guilt money from the Ministry, wasn't even close to being enough. Inflation, too, had dealt a cruel hand in depleting her funds. She briefly wondered how privileged blokes like Malfoy had gone on. She wondered if he was still able to keep up that mansion of his, or if it had tumbled and crumbled into ivy-climbing rubble. Like so many other homes. Like her home.

London was much too busy for her, anyways- that's what she told herself. But she knew that it had only been a matter of time that she didn't want to see anyone, be around anyone she knew in the wizarding world. Not knowing how to talk to them anymore. Not even really caring about how some of them were.

Her heart ached a little, from time to time, just as how her head ached a little from the ringing in her ears, the blows to the head, the imprint in her mind of blazing green killing curses she had seen during the war. Her heart ached from missing Harry and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys. She'd wanted to see them, but her fingers refused to pick up a quill to even write to them. Mostly Harry, she admitted to herself.

Oh, she knew they were looking for her. Or maybe not. Maybe they were in the same boat as she, not caring enough, giving up. Putting a hold on being a noble, loyal Gryffindor.

The bitterness of the tea choked her momentarily, causing her to cough up a mocking laugh. Who was the Sorting Hat to even presume that it knew exactly what a person was made of? It wasn't God. If there was a God. Which Hermione was pretty sure there wasn't. Myer-Brigg tests, on the other hand- that was more accurate predictor of how a person would be. A Muggle personality test, devised by Muggle adults, _taken _by Muggle adults, not little eleven year olds wearing a foul-smelling, too-big, tattered hat. A hat that, through getting into said children's brains, infiltrated their thoughts and sinisterly- _practically- _told these impressionable little fools who they were to be.

_Brave, noble, fiercely loyal, courageous. Oh, you're a Gryffindor. _

_Now you, you little boy or girl, you're manipulative and you know what needs to be done, to get your way. You are a Slytherin._

_Hufflepuff, you are, yes, yes, I see it. Friendly and good and true and cooperative. You will be an outstanding citizen._

_You are smart, dear boy, dear girl. Very clever, more so than your peers. Get that into that nice brain of yours. Ravenclaw._

It's a self-fulfilling prophesy, Hermione decided. She looked at all her Muggle things and wanted to smile but couldn't. She looked at her tapered fingers, cracked and calloused skin and all, trying to feel pride that she had worked so damn hard for four years, doing good work, being a bloody good person, earning every scar and callous. But all she felt was doubt in all the blackness.

Sighing, Hermione decided that it was almost time. Not time for change or for action or for any of that stuff- no, she had done that. It was time for her to try, yet _again_, to make peace with the faceless stones that housed the remains of people she had once loved.


	3. Interrupted Atonement

**_DISCLAIMER:_**_ **All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

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"Jean and Norman Granger," the tombstones read.

She had not Apparated there, nor had she taken a Portkey. She had walked.

"You know," a voice interrupted her from her solace. She looked up, annoyed, but not at all surprised to see the muggle boy peering down at her curiously. She narrowed her eyes but did not move from her cross-legged position. She ignored his out-stretched hand, waited for him to go.

"You should try to smile more often," the boy continued.

"I hardly think visiting a graveyard warrants for smiling," Hermione said frostily. Her fingers clutched possessively around the flowers she held.

"No, I'm just saying in general." The boy, who really wasn't a boy, a man around her age, said. He cracked a smile.

Hermione ignored him as he rambled on. "You come here every month, and you have lines on your face even though you're young. You've white hair. And I can tell that you, you don't smile much, even when you're out with people you love."

_Tune him out. _

Hermione shut her eyes, willed him to go away, the muggle who looked like Dean with his dark skin and white, white teeth. The easy smile and charm. Dean, who died with Fred.

She tried to focus on the words in front of her that she knew was there, but with her eyes shut and everything, could not see: _Beloved Parents, may you make peace in paradise. _

She tried to remember the last time she saw them, two years ago, after the disastrous trip to Australia. After their heavy disapproval and hurt from being forced out of their daughter's life, though it was for their own protection.

All at once, she wanted to scream. _Why couldn't love be enough? Why couldn't they just be happy..._

She opened her eyes, livid that she could not find peace here. She never would, she just knew it. If Muggle Boy wasn't here all the damn time, maybe she could. She glared at him with as much hate as four years of war had afforded her.

"Please leave me alone," she growled, sounding less like the Hermione Granger she, and everyone, had known. When he didn't, she stood up and fled, wiping hot tears as she stalked furiously.

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_**Please review! Thanks! xoxo.**_


	4. The Auror

_**DISCLAIMER:**_**_All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)_**

Harry looked up from this morning's _Daily Prophet,_mildly annoyed that the little toddler at his feet was begging him, _yet again_, for another foot-ride.

"Daddy!" little James cried.

Harry sighed, and gave in. A smile curved his lips without him meaning to. So much for being a stern papa, like how Ginny wanted him to. As a child, he had always sworn to never be mean, neglectful, whatnot, like the Dursleys. Ginny understood _that_, but she still stressed to him the importance of discipline and firmness.

_Ah, to hell with that._

Harry laughed as the child clutched his leg, squealing with anticipation. "Here I go!" Harry yelled, jumping around the living-room, shaking his foot, and James, in the air.

James' laughter, quaking uncontrollably, filled the living room, as radiant as the last remaining rays of sunlight that fell through the window panels. Even Harry, in his exhausted and slightly anxious state, felt compelled to smile, despite what had happened today. He wanted to forget completely about Dawlish's obscure comment at work, to just focus on James, but it was all still so fresh in his mind.

It was a careless comment, but as stinging as any:

"Shacklebolt's about to step down, did you know?" Dawlish had said, dropping the news quite casually as the team of Aurors clobbered down the stairway, out of the dim corridor of the Ministry's East Wing.

"No," Harry started. He blinked furiously behind his round glasses, taken completely off-guard. A stupid habit, really. He was as readable as a book. It was no wonder that he failed at any attempts of occlumency.

"It's the first I'm hearing about it," Easling agreed, "And I'm pretty in tune with Internal Affairs." Easling pushed open the door, letting in the draft.

"Office politics bore me," Zabini sighed, the topic already tiresome. "I'd be more interested in reading some nonsense from _The Quibbler_than ever hearing _anything_ about Shacklebolt, _period_."

"Something to do with Ministry favoritism. An independent group is doing some audit or report on how blokes like us get hired," Dawlish answered, "Guess I don't blame them, I mean look at the new recruits, all these bleeding war heroes." A tinge of disgust- or was it bitterness?- colored his tone. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Dawlish stepped outside before veering a sharp right. The men, headed by Dawlish, strode along the pavement until they reached their destination, an odd-looking, dilapidated house. Harry fell a step behind the other men, bothered by Dawlish's comment. _New recruit, war hero,_he mulled it over, _that would be me._His eyes trailed over to Zabini, former Slytherin his age, not a favorite among the people but damn good at his job. He watched as Zabini stooped down, looking sideways up at the house with narrowed eyes.

"Merlin. You can feel the dark magic from here already," murmured Zabini, no longer bored. He muttered a spell, some modification of the homenum revelio charm. A dark glow dimly radiated over the house for an instant. A spell that Harry was still struggling to master.

"How are the wards," asked Easling, serious now.

"I'm detecting a faint pulsing radiating from that window," Blaise said, nodding to a small porthole-like opening, "to the shrubbery."

"More than just one ward, then?"

"Seems so." Blaise shrugged.

"Potter? Notice anything?" Dawlish grunted. He looked over at Harry, sideways-like, hesitating strangely for a brief moment.

"Erm. No, not really," he admitted, feeling disappointed in himself. True, he was a new recruit, like Dawlish had said, and, being this his third day at work, he had a lot to learn- but he was good enough for this job, wasn't he? He'd fought dark wizards and witches, even defeated Voldemort... yet how was he this ill-prepared in detecting wards compared to the others?

A single word came back, taunting him. _Favoritism._

"Wands ready," warned Dawlish. And with that, with Harry still blinking madly quite like some confused, twitching animal, the Aurors went in.

"Love?" Ginny's voice brought him back to earth. As she always had. That was the nice thing about being with someone, especially someone you liked, loved even. They would be the kind of anchor you could depend on.

"Hmm?"

"I said, how was work today?"

James was in her arms, his eyes murky green and wide as he stared at his daddy. Briefly, Harry wondered how he had gotten there, and why he was no longer clutching his foot. Hot shame coursed through him. He cursed himself for neglecting James if only for a moment, for not minding him.

Harry smiled wanly. "Not the best of days, Gin. We arrested an associate of our beloved, late Lestrange. Some lackey of hers trying out one of those horrid spells she used."

Ginny's mouth tightened. She shifted the child, adjusting her stance to the heavy weight. "I thought her wand had been confiscated?"

"Of course. Standard protocol," Harry said, a tad defensive- he didn't know why. "But it had been stolen about a week ago. There's been a trace, of course, and it was only just today the trace went off."

"Stupid, really," Ginny said, shaking her head in disgust. "I would have examined the wand for a trace, if I were him. Before using it, I mean."

"You, my dear, would have made an excellent criminal." He kissed her on her forehead and took James back into his arms. He bounced James on his lap, smiling as James squealed delightedly.

"What did you do today?"

"Besides taking care of James, I applied for some jobs today. A couple positions that would help rake in the extra galleon, Gringotts bookkeeper and Mediwitch Assistant. Trying to not be the helpless housewife." She cringed internally at the thought.

"As if you ever could." Harry smirked. He hushed James, who was starting to get fussy.

"And I... I found this." Hesitantly, she handed him the photograph she found. It was a picture of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, emerging victoriously from the Gryffindor common room, hand in hand. The boys beaming, holding a Quidditch cup high in the air, Hermione throwing her head back laughing.

"So long ago," Ginny murmured, passing the clipping to Harry. She watched as he smoothed the photograph with one hand, holding James with the other arm. A lump formed in her throat, thinking of Hermione. She knew he was thinking about her too, the way his eyes lingered on the image of the three of them, so ignorantly happy and young.

"You should find her. Talk to her. Bring her home."

Harry smiled sadly. "I would if I could, love. I tried. Seems like she doesn't want to be found."

When she turned around, left the room, he removed his glasses to wearily rub his eyes. He didn't tell her about Ron, her stupid but adored brother who stupidly threw away the only love and happiness that, as far as Harry was concerned, he could have had in a world as crazy and fucked-up as this. He didn't tell her exactly why Hermione no longer wanted to talk to him. He didn't tell her that, even if he did find her, he couldn't muster up enough of his Gryffindor courage to apologize to her, even though he _knew_it was the right thing to do.

And he didn't tell her about Dawlish, about the insinuation that bothered him even now, several hours later.

And he didn't tell her...

He didn't tell her a lot of things.

_**Please review! Thanks! xoxo.**_


	5. A Muggle's Magic

**_DISCLAIMER:_**_ **All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

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On her way back home from the cemetery, Hermione noticed the abrupt change of the weather. The sky had been a smoky grey, the clouds all too oppressive when she left her house an hour ago. Now, the sun had lightened up the dimness, broke through the coldness. Quite unusual for London at this time of the year, she mused to herself.

Hands stuffed in her pockets, Hermione glanced at the traffic lights ahead of her, willing the angry glow of red to turn green already. She hated the business of high street Kensington. She really did. It was always full of Muggle tourists, and well, Muggles. Not that she had anything against Muggles, of course- but the tourists, they were another story.

This was the worst part walking home from the cemetery, she decided. Passing by horrible tourist shoppes- which, she did admit, was a sizeable contribution to Great Britain's economy- and weaving through the thicks and thins of the fashionable tourist-trap street, Hermione wanted to shudder and walk as quickly as possible to home (which thankfully, was _not _at the heart of this dreadful part of London).

The light turned green, and Hermione eagerly crossed the street, thinking of all she had to do at home, which was actually nothing, nothing really compared to the workload she had had not two months ago. The publishing company graciously accepted Hermione's ultimatum: she would no longer write for them while in the wizarding world. She would take time off, as much time as she needed within the next two years, and would work at her own steady pace in order to reach the byline, which was set for 2004. They would leave her alone, the representative of Dragon &amp; Harts, promised her, no more nagging for our war heroine Hermione Granger.

"Merlin." She cursed under her breath, frustration kicking in again. She was starting to hate runes, the war, the runes and the war, and the runes that the Order used in the war as secret codes. It had been a fascinating subject to her, one that she had eagerly agreed to research and publish a textbook on, but that had been right after the war- in the thick of all the mourning over friends and family and humanity- when she needed a distraction the most. And now, she wanted nothing to do with it.

From time to time in her life, in her twenty years of living, Hermione noticed that although she was good at certain things- like saving Harry and Ron's stupid arses from their own horrible judgment, or in any academic field- and even though she would enjoy doing those things, there were times when she wished she could move on to something else. And now here it was again, this funny feeling in her bones that she needed a change. It was the same feeling that brought her to London, isolated from magic, isolated from people who knew her. It wasn't like her usually to follow every whim- she didn't believe in impulses- she wanted reason and pros and cons. But every once in a while, every _once _in a while, she would indulge this odd compulsion.

She was about to veer off to the left, past the tiny sandwich shop that, if she kept following that direction, would take her another four miles to her small flat. It was a well-worn path to her now, and her feet mechanically followed the familiar pavement- when she caught a few words from a group of muggles standing outside the shop.

"He's just been nominated as a fellow of the _Royal Society_," one girl was saying, in an awed voice.

"And he's speaking at the university?" another voice chimed in, incredulous.

Hermione whirled her head. Shite. A witch she was, yes, but a muggle-born she would always be. Of course she knew about such things like the Society. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she eagerly awaited to hear more about this famed muggle scholar.

"Apparently so." The first girl sniffed. "_Today_. For _free._ About some scientific breakthrough for some sort of autoimmune disease."

"We're going," her friend said excitedly.

_Yes, we are_.

Hermione fell in step behind them, starting to feel more alive already. Humanity- in this, her hopes had been dashed; but for knowledge- never. This was the change that she had felt coming moments before.

The university girls, unknowingly trailed by Hermione, walked through the underground, practically tripping over the throngs of people lining up in queues, voices raised over the noisiness of chattering and the rushing of trains. Hermione felt herself melting into her environment, glad that she was just an anonymous face in a very large crowd. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, enjoying the sensation of it all- the rush, the excitement, the stirring in her mind, hungry for stimulation.

She was doing well, quite well, in not thinking about the wizarding world, when all of a sudden, an alarmingly bright flash of red caught her eye. She was on one of the cars, and only had two more stops to go. Immediately upon seeing the offensive ginger hair, her mind flashed to Ron, that incorrigible prat. _"Have you gone mad? Are you a witch or not?"_ _he had bellowed to her in their second year. They were in the darkness and she was scared and he had yelled at her, and she remembered the panic subsiding a bit as she pulled out her wand_. Her wand. She missed what it offered- familiarity, comfort, power.

_No_. Her mind strained to snap back to her new reality, here, in this underground train, sitting across a rather large man in a shabby business suit. _That's not my life anymore._ Eyes narrowing at the man, who was chewing off a piece of some unsavory-smelling sandwich, she vowed to focus on her new surroundings.

She saw that the girls she was following had hopped out of their seats excitedly. Numbly, she followed them. She found herself squinting into the glaring sun, her eyes struggling to adjust from the dimness she had emerged from.

On her way to the university, she passed by a homeless man on the street. She averted her eyes quickly, straining to look beyond him. She didn't want to meet his eyes, see the pain in there. She didn't want to feel compassion towards him, she didn't want to _feel_. Her heart had bled too much already, had already been poured into countless others' and she just didn't want, she didn't _want_-

"We're here," one of the girls announced excitedly. She and her friends frantically whipped out their cell phones and began taking pictures of the stately red brick buildings large banners bearing the words "Honorable Guest Speaker Dr. Rutger." Though she had never heard of this Dr. Rutger- she was looking forward to such listening to any respectable scholar with such accolades. Hermione was suddenly ashamed of herself for not following up on muggle research when at Hogwarts.

An enormous crowd had gathered at the base of the platform, where a man, forty-ish but already greying at the temples, was already speaking. "-Specifically, these genes are the key in figuring out _how _to reverse this disease process. Autoimmune diseases, which of course range from something as non-life threatening as vitiligo to debilitating as multiple sclerosis, may in fact have a cure after all..."

Hermione's brain whirled frantically, struggling to keep up with this flow of knowledge that spouted readily from Rutger's lips. This vaguely familiar talk of genes and hereditary variations and biomarkers stirred something within her, a passion that had been dormant for far too long. It seemed it had been _ages_ since Hermione learned something that captivated her as much as this. The cursed war, and the preceding events leading to it, had wrenched her away from the classrooms of Hogwarts (which, under the Death Eaters, offered not much of an education anyways), and thrusted her into purely combatative fight-or-flight situations; the only intellectual stimulation she got was from solving the mystery of horcruxes and thinking of ways to not kill that idiot Weasley. But none of this registered in her mind as she raptly listened to the man on stage.

When at last Rutger's lecture was over, and he had called for any questions from the audience, Hermione's hand instantly shot up.

_I think_, Hermione said to herself, approaching the stage, after many a "excuse me, excuse me please" as she had weaved through the masses- all the while ignoring the mingled scent of body odor and sunscreen, ignoring four-letter curses and stepping of toes- until finally she was there, right there in the thick of the crowd, looking up at the man who was curiously looking at her rigid arm in the air, the determined set of her mouth, _I have found myself again_.

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	6. A Musing Malfoy

**_DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)_**

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******Three years later**

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Draco Malfoy stared bleakly outside his office window, not looking at anything in particular. There was the entirety of London on the other side of the glass, but he didn't really feel anything towards it, despite practically having all of it, _all _of it, in the palms of his hands. Instead, his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Scorpius, the little bastard toddler of his whom he had tried so hard not to love, but somehow loved anyway. It was probably the silvery blond hair that mirrored his own, or the light and agile way he moved, reminding Draco of his younger self the first time on a broom. Or maybe it was the fact that Scorpius was his own, the only good and pure thing that Draco believed came from his existence.

Simms, his assistant, knocked on the door that Draco always kept locked, even on short bathroom breaks. _He's a private man, that Malfoy_, Simms mused to himself. _I hope he's not displeased with what I'm about to tell him._

"Enter," Draco said, his concentration breaking at the sound of the tentative knocks. He flicked his wand at the door, not bothering with verbal spells anymore. The door swung open, showing a nervous-looking man carrying a large manila envelope.

"Break the seal."

"But, sir, don't you want me to explain how-"

"No," Draco snapped, irritated, "Just give me the damn file so I can read it myself. You _did _make sure he met the qualifications?"

"She," murmured Simms, correcting the pronoun slip-up.

"She? Isn't it Greggors-" But Malfoy ripped open the envelope, and upon glancing at the file, faltered. "_Oh._"

"Greggors had a change of heart," Simms said regretfully, shuffling his feet around. He watched as his employer inspected the file, cool grey eyes darting from line to line. "He didn't want to, er, how did he put this... 'compromise' his work ethics. He refused to... experiment on a human test subject at this stage of his work. I hope you're not unhappy-"

Malfoy looked up, bristling at the word "unhappy." He glared at Simms. "And this one won't 'compromise' her work ethics as well?" "Gryffindor," he muttered under his breath.

"I've done my research very thoroughly. If you want, sir, I can elaborate on her more controversial work-"

"No." Malfoy flicked his wand at the door once more, this time showing Simms out. "You may go. Make the preparations, _go,_" he added when his assistant didn't scuffle immediately, "I'll read this for myself."

The door slammed shut for the final time, and Malfoy, with slightly trembling hands, looked down at the picture of the woman he had once called Mudblood. "Granger," he whispered to himself, the name strange on his lips. "I did wonder what had happened to you."


	7. A Reunion Most Unexpected

_**DISCLAIMER:**_**_All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)_**

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**A/N: Hello lovelies! Thank you to those who have read and reviewed! Since my last update, I've fixed Blaise Zabini's name (thanks to Colubrina for pointing that out!) as well as added a sort of timeline (thanks to AutumnsSun!) to hopefully make things a little clearer. Thanks as always for reading! **

**Always, Besos xoxo**

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It was not very unusual for Harry to find himself in an awkward situation.

There he was, flying through the exceedingly narrow streets of Diagon Alley, zipping this way and that way through the throngs of people in his attempt to dash to the jewelry shoppe right before closing time- his mind hurriedly rushing through various thoughts of Ginny and their fifth year anniversary and his guilt and his work and those shattered moments from last night- when all of a sudden he caught sight of a familiar tangle of brown hair.

She was standing in front of Skewt, the relatively new pub that had opened up a few months ago. It was not the same pub he'd been in last night, when he'd had too much to drink and had lost all good judgment he might have possessed; it was not the same pub in which a certain redhead, one who was not Ginny, had caught his eye and approached him; it was not this pub where he clumsily threw down his galleons and left with a lighter pouch of coins, a girl in his arms, and an aching hardness in his pants.

But there she was, Hermione, one of the two of his oldest friends. One of the only people in the world who had stood by him all these years. It'd been five years since he'd seen her last. Guilt, that familiar monster that provokes and ensnares one into moral submission, gnawed at him until he made a sort of resigned sighing noise, and shuffled towards her direction.

"Hermione," Harry said awkwardly. He offered a weak smile. She whipped her head around, clutching the straps of her bag tighter, knuckles whitening, face whitening a bit when she saw who it was.

"Harry," she breathed.

"How... how are you," he asked, flustered, running his hand through his messy hair. He prayed to whatever gods were there that he didn't smell like alcohol still.

"I'm... good." She uncertainly closed in the distance between them. "You?"

"Good."

He looked good, she decided, studying him as the awkward pause continued. Five years time had served him well. She'd heard little tidbits about him here and there in the past year, as she was increasingly re-immersing herself in the wizarding world. Not that she wanted to. But sometimes her work mandated her to be here, and sometimes she would hear things, read things in the Daily Prophet.

"How is Ginny," she asked, struggling to make this conversation a pleasant one- their last one had not been. "And... and Ron."

"Ginny's good, she thinks she's pregnant," Harry said. He had to stop himself from running his hand through his hair in frustration. He couldn't let her see.

"Congratulations." She smiled.

"And Ron is well. He was offered a position as an Auror, and he could've been one too, since, well, I got promoted," he shuffled his feet, not really too comfortable with boasting about himself.

_Still. After all this time. _Hermione's smile became more genuine. _As modest as ever, you are._

Harry didn't offer more about Ron, of which Hermione was grateful. Instead, he redirected the conversation to Hermione, whom he noted was wearing a strange combination of muggle clothes and wizarding robes that clashed haphazardly. "What have you been up to lately, Hermione? You've been... gone."

"Yes," she said simply. She looked over her shoulder quickly, as though she was late for some sort of appointment. "I needed a break from the wizarding world. I became a scientist," she added, her features softening a little, "A right good one, if I do say so myself. I usually just research muggle things, muggle diseases, but in the past year I've been working on projects that serve wizards and witches as well. And today, well, right now, I'm meeting with a collaborator."

"That's wonderful," he said warmly. He had always known she was special, that she would do great things in the world- muggle things, too. Taking a deep breath, as if to summon his courage- courage that he'd had worked to build for _years -_ Harry finally said, "'Mione... I've been meaning to talk to you since the last time we talked. With Ron. About your... parents."

She flinched, stepping back from him now, and they were strangers once more.

"I..."

Harry pressed on. "You know we need to, 'Mione." He tried his best to bridge the gap between them, using her nickname. Hoping it would soften her, dull her instincts of pulling away from him and the heaviness of the topic.

_So she wants lightness, superficiality- the bland _"how are you's",_ the old _"Oh I'm good"_? Think again._

He gritted his teeth, ignoring the temptation to turn back and cower in the safe and in the comfortable.

"Let's meet up. Please. Sometime soon, over dinner or something. We can't just let it be like this," he gestured at her crossed arms, "forever."

"Maybe," she said guardedly. Blinked away tears, shutting off the images of her parents' faces, grim as they were the last time she'd seen them alive. She came here to the pub for business, but maybe she'd settle for a drink instead. "Not now. I have to go."

He furrowed his brows, disappointed. "Okay," he said at last, when she turned away from him and grasped the knob of the door, "Not now. But soon. Owl me or something."

She was almost safe inside the pub when she heard him. "You can't keep punishing us forever, 'Mione."

_Oh, can't I. _She brushed away angry tears. _No, on the contrary, dear Harry. I think I have every right to._

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**What do you guys think? :) Please review! Nothing makes me happier than getting feedback (well, okay except for reading high quality Dramione fics while eating peanut butter ice cream)! **


	8. Stipulations

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

**A/N: Thanks to Guest reviewer for catching the miscalculation of months! Always happy to take your feedback :)**

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He found her sitting alone in a small booth close to the bar. It was easy to tell it was her- the brown messy hair, the muggle clothing, yes, that was just like in the pictures, but the sagging shoulders and defeated bow of the head- no, he hadn't been expecting that.

Simms approached her carefully, a little unsure whether or not the timing was right. Maybe he should wait a few minutes, let her compose herself in the ladies' room? But he sighed heavily. No, he couldn't- his watch said eight-forty, their corresponding emails said eight-thirty, and Mr. Malfoy was expecting a full report by ten...

"Ms. Granger," the man said cordially, with a small smile. He stood a few feet away, and when she looked up, she was surprised that such a deep voice came from this very thin, nervous-looking man.

"Hello, Mr. Simms." She sniffled a little, wiping the last tear away. She smiled perhaps a little too brightly, gestured a little too wildly at the seat in front of her. He slid smoothly into the booth, noting the three empty glasses she had pushed out of the way.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he began, "The portkey was giving me problems as I was trying to get here."

"It's not a problem," she said. She glanced at the glasses. "I think I needed to relax anyway before you came."

Her eyes were a tad too glassy for a respectable professional, but they held in them a sort of solemn intelligence, some level of desperation he couldn't quite explain, and he knew he'd selected the right person for the task.

"Now I should tell you, straight-off-the-bat-" he began, pulling out some papers out from the file.

"No, no, let us get you a drink first." She called over a nearby waitress. "Excuse me," she called a bit too loudly. A couple heads turned in her direction, but she ignored them, straining her neck to catch the waitress' eye.

She waited for Simms to order, then waved her hand, in an absurdly grand gesture for him to speak.

He cleared his throat nervously, wondering exactly what Ms. Granger had been drinking. Perhaps not your standard moscato...

"Ms. Granger," he began again, "I have briefed you of the importance, and the _haste _of the nature of the work that is to be done. It is a matter of grave importance to my employer, and, as mentioned, this will involve some sacrifice of your ethics. Of course, you may use this... project... as a way of furthering your own career, and you will, to be sure. But the exact methods in which you obtain your results must be confidential, and the identity of the subject, and my patron, must be as well."

"You're mistaken, Mr. Simms, in assuming I can even publish this." Hermione sipped on a glass of water. She folded her hands and leaned forward. "The scientific community insists on knowing the methods involved. And I cannot guarantee that I can protect these identities."

Simms' heart sank. "But... I thought you had agreed..."

"I did," she said. "I still do agree. But you've mistaken my intentions: I'm not publishing this. This is for my own purposes, intellectually speaking, of course. But you do remember what I had asked for in return?"

"Our state-of-the-art technology?" He shuffled some papers around, then pulled out screenshots of the equipment he'd promised her.

"Yes."

"That I can provide," he said, relieved.

"Well." Her lips curved into a smile. "To keep. Not to borrow."

Simms faltered. "That would deplete much of the company's fortune."

"It's impossible for me to get that equipment otherwise," Hermione proceeded as though she hadn't heard him, "I don't have the means. I don't have that kind of financial support. Yet."

"Surely, a grant would do..."

"A grant wouldn't nearly cover the expenses of the equipment. Besides, it would probably be earmarked for other things. Utility costs. Paying assistants." She scoffed. "That would all be extraneous. I don't really need assistants."

She cut him off again before he could reply. "And taxes. Those bleeding taxes. I'd have to pay the Queen _and _the bloody Ministry, most likely."

Now it was _his _turn to droop his shoulders. _Good God, _he thought, _Malfoy's not going to like this._

"And the salary we agreed to," Hermione added. She tried to think of any other stipulations.

Simms didn't want to give her any more time to think. "Of course," he said hurriedly. "Of course. My employer will agree." _Anything for her, _Malfoy had said, _Just agree with her and get it done. _"There's this thing with the time frame. I've mentioned that, given the subject's condition, everything must be completed within the next two years. I know it's not a lot of time," he raised a finger as Hermione objected, "Nowhere _close _for you. But it _must _be done. My employer would lose his son if he did."

"So," Hermione said slowly, choosing to humor him, rather than to come to terms with such a _ridiculous _timeframe, "I've only two years."

"Twenty-four months to today," Simms confirmed.

"And," she reached for her glass, the water one- no more alcohol for her- "And, since you were not particularly clear in our correspondence, I take it that this 'employer' is the father of the male subject?"

"Yes."

"A desperate father, then," she mused aloud to herself. "Who is in dire need of saving his son's life. One from the wizarding world, who is wealthy enough to supply me with all this muggle equipment that's worth an absolute fortune. Who is either such a snob or an incredibly busy man that he won't even meet me in person but will send a lackey he's hired in his stead."

Simms bristled at the word "lackey." "Yes," he answered reluctantly, "He's instructed me not to tell you his name."

"Strange request from such a generous benefactor."

She leaned back in her chair, examined Simms. He was dressed well, meaning he was probably paid well, and carried himself a bit like an anxious mouse who probably feared his employer's wrath... She had a slight suspicion of who his employer was. _But then again_, she thought to herself, _It could be any one of their lot_.

"I need the file," she said. She held out her hand and Simms dropped it in her waiting palms. She opened it, skimming the papers voraciously. "Five year old boy diagnosed with HLH," She nodded to herself, remembering the strange case that had initially presented itself to her in Simms' first email. "Currently has skin rashes, palpable enlarged liver, low hemoglobin and hematocrit, markers positive for intermediate stages..."

Simms peered over his spectacles quite anxiously, alarmed at the spiel of muggle medical jargon. "You are sure that you are able to fix this? Cure him when there is no definite cure?"

"And I thought you'd done your research well," Hermione murmured, a lofty eyebrow raised.

Simms flushed an unattractive red colour. "I did, Ms. Granger," he sputtered. _Don't question her, _Malfoy had warned him prior to his coming here. _She was 'the brightest witch of our age.'_

Hermione finished reading the rest of the file. Satisfied, she tucked it away in her tiny purse, which had been magicked with an undetectable extension charm.

"You will tell your employer that I will contact him-"

"Me, actually," Simms butted in, "I am the liason."

_Alright,_ Hermione thought, smirking, _So the poor man is proud of being some prat's bitch. _She went on. "That I will contact _you_, then, in less than a week's time to gather the first samples I'll be needing. Oh, and I want that equipment delivered immediately. The faster it's set up, the faster I can start."

As the two departed from the bar, after shaking hands, and murmuring niceties- almost singlehandedly on Simms' side; Hermione was far too gone to care for such things- Simms shuddered uneasily. How bossy this woman! For a minute, he felt sorry for Malfoy for all the concessions he'd have to put up with- and then, remembering he was practically Malfoy's punching bag, he felt sorry for himself. _This assignment_, he groaned inwardly, making his way across the street, towards the portkey provided for him, _will flay my nerves raw._

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**Second A/N: ***HLH is** **Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis. Though this story is purely fiction, the disease is not. I will do my best in portraying the effects of the disease to the best of my ability, out of respect for the people who have this illness. I'll be discussing it more in depth in other chapters, but you should know for now that though I did somewhat randomly select this disease to write about, some variations of this condition are strongly linked to congenital causes... namely incest.**

**Getting more interesting? Please R&amp;R!**


	9. The War Hero

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

"Liar."

It was just one word, but the moment it had left Ginny's lips Harry felt a sharp pain somewhere in his chest.

_Liar liar liar liar _it reverberated in his head even now, a day after it had happened.

Ginny had wordlessly accepted her anniversary gift, an intricately carved wooden lion pendant and necklace, and Harry, relieved that she spared him a suspicious glare, moved in for a kiss but instead received a burning slap across his jaw.

"Where were you last night," she had said, trembling, her fists in a ball. She moved to strike him again, but Harry deftly dodged her. He anxiously looked over his shoulder, hoping their son would not wake and find them fighting.

"I'm sorry, love," he tried, "I meant to have gotten back to you sooner last night but-"

"I'm tired of your excuses," Ginny spat. She held her head high, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. "There have been too many nights like this. When I wait and wait and bleeding _wait _for you, and you don't come home. When I tell James you're coming back once he's asleep. When I wake up in an empty bed."

"So I'm going to ask you again," her voice shook. "And this time I want answers. Where were you?"

"I was out with some blokes from work," he answered carefully. It was not a lie, not yet. "At some pub."

"At some pub?" Ginny frustratedly picked up a cushion from their loveseat and threw it at his head. She advanced, reaching for something else to throw, but Harry pinned her arms to her sides. "Do enlighten me, Harry, why you would be at a _pub _the whole night and returning an entire day later."

Harry tried avoided looking at her eyes, but couldn't, as they were breaths apart. "Crashed at Zabini's couch," he mumbled.

He wish immediately he hadn't.

A long painful silence stretched out between them . He knew Ginny was testing him, tasting the air for the lie amidst the truth.

The silence he could take. The quietness in her voice he could take. He could even ignore, if he really tried, Ginny's wounded expression, the bitterness in her eyes. But it was the one word that whispered truth to him. "You're a_ liar_, Harry."

"That's not fair, Gin," he remembered wanting to protest, because the truth was he hated being called that four-lettered word more than anything. It had always stung, being called that, from Snape (though he had hated him back then) and from Umbridge (whom he would forever hate, though she was long dead). But, knowing his wife was right- that he in fact _was _a liar- Harry kept silent. He had fucked up royally this time.

"Tell me the truth, please." She stepped back from him, crossed her arms over herself tightly. "Is there someone else?"

"Yes," he said after a moment's pause.

"Who is it?"

He sank to the couch shakily. Gestured her to join him. She shook her head in refusal. Her petite frame towered over him as he debated what to tell his wife. Not exactly _what_. But how much.

His mind raced with thoughts of Cho. Should he tell her that everything had started out with a simple kiss? Or had it? He wanted to blame the war- that everything started out with the war. He didn't know where to start though- should he tell her of his uncertainty of the future? Of the gnawing feeling of ill-preparedness after being thrust into a decidedly different world, one with no textbooks and classrooms and room for mistakes? Of how he had grinned from ear to ear when he was promoted to Head Auror, and, believing he was entitled after years of hard work proving himself in his field, stole a kiss from Cho Chang at a Ministry party?

Pale skin, golden-tinged; lovely amber eyes and the small hands. Black hair. Silk nightgown. Cho Chang.

Visiting Diggory's grave with her, holding her tightly as she wept. Black hair. Morning coffee runs. Cho Chang.

Coming back to Ginny, noting her tired eyes. The dullness of her red hair. The stretch marks from carrying James in her womb. Ignoring feelings of guilt as he sat through quiet dinners with Ginny and their son. Tucking in his beloved boy, thinking _This has nothing to do with you, James_, and turning away from his wife once they'd settled into bed.

Thinking of black hair. Cho Chang.

But what came out of his mouth was, "I had too much to drink last night. A girl came up to me. I left," he swallowed thickly, "I left with her."

Ginny recoiled from him. "How could you?" was what he had expected to hear from her. But instead she asked for how long he'd been doing this.

"Just last night." The lie fell out of his mouth easily.

"Bullshit." She spun away from him. "Don't think you can lie to me, Harry James Potter. I want," she said, as her fingers clenched around her wand, "I want you to leave this house right now."

She had pointed her wand directly at him, he remembered now. He remembered the sickening feeling in his gut, knowing that she would hex him, curse him even, if he didn't obey. And he remembered the feeling of hot shame course through his body. It was worse than any curse he'd experienced.

"James," he had started to say, but she shook her head.

"Leave now."

She'd thrown something at him. He'd stooped down to pick up the item. It was the pendant necklace he'd given her.

And now, here in this dimly lit room, in this creaky unfamiliar bed, he looked down at the pendant, tracing the smooth contours of the lion's face with shaky fingers.

_Happy anniversary, Gin_.

He looked out the inn's window, eyes scanning the darkening sky and the people enveloped in it, chatting in the street or stopping to examine various stalls from vendors. He vaguely remembered the event was most likely the Harvesters' Market, which occurred on the streets of Diagon Alley every weekend.

His eyes flickered downward to Skewt, where he'd seen Hermione two days ago. He'd nearly forgotten about their meeting, given everything that had happened between him and Ginny. He knew Hermione would not owl him, as he'd asked her to.

_What would Hermione say about all this?_ he briefly wondered, _Would she try to even see my side? Is the world still black and white in her eyes?_

_Because it's not to me, _he thought bitterly.

He threw a bottle, aiming for the wall in front of him. He watched as the bottle splashed its contents against the white wall, staining it dark with ale. Watched as the shards of glass fell to the floor. And then, taking his wand, muttered a summoning spell. The shards rose up in the air, glinting beautifully in the last of the day's sunlight. Harry held them there for a moment, taking time to admire the golden-green hues suspended above him before slashing the wand violently in a downward motion, making no sound at all as the crystal rain fell onto his skin. The room became still, and his arm went limp, and Harry could feel no more.

**A/N: Please review! 3 Thanks for reading! xoxo, Besos**


	10. My Kingdom for a Horse

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

_The thing to do is breathe_, Draco reminded himself. _If you breathe, and if you keep breathing you will be alright._

But he was hyperventilating. He cradled his head between his knees, listening to the breaths he took. _Whoosh. _In. _Whoosh_. Out.

He wanted to be ready now; the healers in the next room were expecting him. He wanted to be able to stand upright, head held high, eyes sharp and keen and ready to challenge the world. But he needed more time to compose himself. He wasn't ready.

_In life_, he thought bitterly, _You are never ready._

He swung his legs forward, breath still hitching, and, hoping it would do the trick fast enough, brought the flask to his lips and swallowed the calming draught. His spindly legs carried him to Scorpius' room.

The first thing he noticed was his son, who was weakly murmuring something in a healer's ear. Scorpius's pale eyelashes fluttered before shutting his eyes. Swallowing thickly, Draco approached his son, willing a calm, reassuring mask to appear on his face.

"Hello, my boy," Draco said, keeping his voice light. "Not giving the healers trouble, are you?" "Daddy," Scorpius croaked. His father smoothed out the pale blonde hair, noting the yellowish tinge to Scorpius' skin.

"Hush, now," he said, and resting his hand on his son's scalp, turned to the chief healer of St. Mungo's. "Did it work?"

"No," the healer replied, "I am sorry Mr. Malfoy." He averted his eyes to the floor. "We've tried all the potions we've had to offer, even the off-the-market Cytomedens one we've discussed."

"But surely it should at least potentiate the effects of Muggle medicine," Malfoy countered.

"The chemo... whatever it's called... it only serves to bring down his inflammation," the healer said, nodding to the boy in between them, "The potions are attempting to regenerate his cells, same as the muggle cell transplant. But the cancer is spreading much, much too quickly."

Draco bit back a retort, letting out a soft strangled noise. He nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. The men in white left the room, leaving the father and son in peace.

"My little prince," Draco's lips whispered above his son's white-blonde hair.

"A king," Scorpius corrected him, raising his arm to prop himself up on the bed. He sputtered a cough.

Draco suppressed a laugh. "A king, you say? I, my son, am a king. You will be someday. You will rule the world with the kingdom I've built," he whispered this hope, wishing he could guarantee every promise he'd made to Scorpius.

"The king," Scorpius said, his squeaky voice growing higher with drowsy excitement, "The king enacts more wonders than a man/ daring an opposite to every danger."

"Yes." Draco smiled, thinking what a wonder it was that his five year old son could quote Shakespeare. "His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights/Seeking Richmond in the throat of death."

_As you will fight. _He swallowed down the lump in his throat. _The Throat of Death._

"A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" Scorpius yelled. He giggled, perhaps remembering renacting the scene of the play with his father a few months ago, when he was in remission. His father had been so stern at first, but the hard lines of his face had softened for a moment as he had watched his son gallop around as though on a horse.

The giggles turned into vicious coughs racking the boy's small body. Draco immediately propped the boy up to quell any more coughs. "Take deep breaths," he reminded his son, reminded himself.

_My kingdom for a horse, _were the famous words.

But as he held a basin under his son's chin, watching his son pale as he coughed and gagged, Draco's mind flashed worriedly to his son. And then to Granger.

_Oh, my kingdom for just more time._

**A/N: Draco and Scorpius are quoting Richard III (Act V) by Shakespeare :) Not only do I just love the quote itself, but the irony of the fact that Draco, who is notoriously known as a coward, and also as a Slytherin, known to safeguard his own self-preservation (like Richard III here), is actually putting others (well, Scorpius) first. More about Draco and his self-preservation in later chapters but I promise it won't disappoint! :)**

**Please review! xoxo, Besos **


	11. Questions of Science

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

She was tired of looking at the tiny images through her microscope.

It had been _days _of testing out the different effects of various magical spells, potions, and combinations thereof in addition to muggle medicine. She had sent the lab samples to three different consulting muggle labs, and had received the test results today. Nothing she tried had been working.

Her mind raced through other possible ways she could alter the subject's DNA. She supposed that there were quicker ways, albeit extremely deadly ways, to destroy the malignant cells. She could use a more potent type of radiation generated by a complicated wave of explosive curses. Or a modified incendio spell that could bend the DNA of histiocytes. But then she'd have to ensure that only the cancerous cells would be affected, while regenerating the nonmalignant cells at a rate that would exceed the damages.

She tapped on some keys of her computer, watching as the numbers whirled by on the monitor's screen as the machine calculated the rate of regeneration over damage. She let out a low whistle at the value given on screen. Numbers tumbled over in her brain and her heart sank when she realized that the boy would most likely not live, given the high dosage she was considering.

It didn't help, either, that the subject appeared to have had a horrible immune system to start out with. Most likely due to some inbreeding. She'd asked her patron to donate a sample of his DNA as well, and was surprised to find that the father and son shared much more DNA than what was typical. They were probably purebloods. Purebloods, that, as confirmed by her studies of the various gene segments, were a rarity: both father and son possessed a rare gene that was similar to the one responsible for albinism.

_Wait..._

Hermione's eyes widened. She suddenly felt so foolish for not realizing this sooner.

Her patron had money, lots of it. An intimidating demeanor, if he could reduce his poor assistant to nervousness. He was most likely a pureblood with pale skin and very light, to the point of almost white, blonde hair...

"Bleeding Draco Malfoy," she said, with a strange lilt in her voice.

She got up from her chair and paced around her office, trying to process the news.

She admitted to herself that she was jumping into conclusions. Rather unscientific of her, she knew. But she had a gut feeling... some instinct that remained in her Gryffindorian head. An instinct that she felt so compelled to act on, she Apparated from her office, disappearing with a loud crack.

**A/N: Now we're headed somewhere! It was awfully tedious (though still a bit fun) working my way up to this point... but now, finally Hermione and Draco are going to meet. Thanks for reading and reviewing, keep doing so! :D **

**Also, for the scientists reading this.. sorry there if there are inaccuracies, I'm not a scientist xD**


	12. Liar, Unreformed

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-) **_

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A powerful wave of energy shook Hermione's body the moment she aparrated in front of the Malfoy mansion. She hadn't felt anything like this before, this magic. She hesitantly touched the door, expecting the wards to blast her out into the street, a sinister reverberation from a quasi-dark wizard like Malfoy. But instead only a dull, thrumming vibration rippled through her arm. _This is ancient magic, _she knew, and instantly her mind flashed through the dozens of spells that could perhaps disarm the wards, just powerful enough to protect her from simply knocking on his door. She supposed she should have sent an owl first.

Perhaps this wasn't the smartest decision she had made all week.

Muttering a spell under her breath, hoping it would do the trick, Hermione tentatively raised her hand to knock. She only had to wait a few seconds before the door peeked open, revealing a cerulean eye.

"Yes?" an old man's voice asked suspiciously.

"I apologize for not giving Mr. Malfoy further notice... but I would like to speak with him. Tell him Hermione Granger is here," she said smoothly.

"Gretchen," the butler called to someone in the house, "Let the master know a Hermione Granger is here to see him."

The man opened the door wider, but still looked at Hermione with suspicion. "Do come in," he said, gesturing her in.

Hermione stepped inside, and was immediately surprised with how much the manor had changed since she'd last been here... when she'd been thrown into the basement and tortured by Bellatrix. She shuddered,remembering flashes from the horrors she had tried so hard to forget.

The manor retained its grandeur, but where there was baroque there was now modernity. New furniture, still very tasteful, were now of lighter colors accented by the light streaming in from an open window. Hermione sat down on an ivory chaise, deciding she rather liked the place. She thought would have hated it, coming here, given what her muggle psychiatrist called "PTSD," but to her surprise, she wanted to see more of the house.

"Daddy," a child's voice was saying, coming from the behind the wall directly in front of her, "I want to meet the lady."

A quiet voice murmured something, but the boy didn't relent. "I never have visitors, can I _please_?"

"Alright," Hermione thought she heard, and soon after, a thin boy scrambled into the room, huffing in exertion.

"Scorpius!" Malfoy's voice sharply rose. "You oughtn't run. Slowly, _please_." He followed his son into the room.

With some alarm, Hermione stared at the boy, who looked ill, of course, but nevertheless bore an uncanny resemblance to his father. Steel grey eyes, the boys' flashing in excitement; Malfoy's in alarm- the pale blonde hair, the lithe forms. The boy- Scorpius, was it?- was definitely a Malfoy.

"Hello," she said, rising tentatively to greet them. The boy walked closer and tugged on her arm. "Who are you?"

"Manners, Scorpius," Draco said curtly, but not unkindly. He looked at Hermione with inscrutable eyes.

"It's alright," Hermione said, smiling awkwardly at the child. She wasn't good with kids. It wasn't a particularly well known fact; she'd had very little experience working with children and often became impatient when talking to them. To her, they were little adults, human beings that were just... smaller. Emotionally volatile and incapable of the intellectual capacity to engage in an intelligent conversation with her.

"I'm Dr. Granger. And you are..."

"Scorpius Malfoy," the boy said promptly. He sputtered a cough, covering his mouth with his sleeve, then he looked waywards at his father.

"He's my daddy," he said proudly, gesturing to Draco, who approached Hermione. He protectively placed a hand on his son.

"Oh," was all Hermione managed. She extended a hand to Draco. "I'm sorry for dropping in like this. But I wanted to talk to you."

He stared at the hand for a few seconds, as if deciding if he wanted to shake it.

"Granger. It is quite unexpected," he murmured, finally shaking her hand. He discreetly wiped his palm on his pants. "I don't see why you couldn't have just owled. Or contacted Simms."

_No pretenses. _Hermione smiled in spite of herself. _He knows that I know who he is._

"I could have," she replied.

Draco opened his mouth as if to speak, but Scorpius quickly asked, "Why is Dr. Granger here, daddy?"

"She's the healer who is going to heal you," his father said, very pointedly, jerking his chin towards the woman before him, "_Completely._"

Hermione smiled faintly at the subtly veiled threat.

"That I am," she said. She awkwardly kneeled so that she was at eye-level with the boy, something she'd seen Harry do with adoring children at the press conferences. "I'll be seeing you soon for doctor visits, okay?"

Draco perhaps took her hint, that she wanted the boy out of the way, because he said firmly, "Now, you'll have plenty of time to get to know each other better, but it's time for bed," and placed both palms squarely on Scorpius' shoulders. "Come on, now, say goodnight to Dr. Granger."

"Goodnight, Dr. Granger!" the boy chirped obediently, and followed his father up the sloping stairs.

Hermione smiled to herself. She decided she rather liked the boy. He had none of the unpleasantness of the elder Malfoy when he was a boy. No sneer curling at the lips, no haughty toss of the head, no name calling. _But then again_, she realized, _Malfoy hasn't treated me rudely either... yet_. Perhaps it wasn't such a ridiculous concept that Malfoy was capable of change.

_And not just a personality change_... Hermione averted her eyes from his approaching figure. He's a handsome man now, she grudgingly admitted to herself, no longer the thin ferrety prick he'd been in the days when he called her Mudblood.

"Have a seat," Malfoy said, not ungraciously, but still with the same aristocratic air he'd had as a child. He gestured to the lounge and called a servant for tea.

"So Granger," he began, folding his hands, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Indeed, what _was _the reason she had shown up here, unannounced on his doorstep? Now that she was there, sitting in Draco Malfoy's drawing room, facing her childhood nemesis and now virtual stranger- _employer_ now- she couldn't think of a strictly professional reason.

"I suppose," she tried, scrambling for words, in an attempt to not sound like a harebrained idiot, "I wanted to see exactly what I was dealing with. My subject. Scorpius."

"Showing up to my home during private hours?" He shook his head. "I didn't think you were the type to pay house visits, Granger."

"I usually don't," she said guardedly. A bit flustered, she cracked her knuckles on her lap. Fiddled with her rings.

Malfoy's eyes zeroed in on her fingers. "At any rate," he said softly, "I don't imagine your husband would be happy with you showing up at sunset. Missing dinner and all." 

"Husband? I'm not married." 

He nodded in the direction of her ring finger. 

"Oh," she twiddled with the ring. "It's something of my parents."

He looked at her coolly. "I see." 

She suddenly felt terribly awkward. "I'm sorry," she said, confidence faltering. "I shouldn't have intruded. You probably want to be with your son right now. I've come because I've just only, what's the phrase, 'put two and two together.'" She got up to leave.

"No, sit," he ordered with an intensity borne from confidence or, as Hermione suspected, from a sense of entitlement. 

"Please," he amended, realizing he sounded demanding. He looked away. "I've already called for tea. And Scorpius is already in bed."

"Alright." She sat back down warily.

"And since you're here, I might as well ask that from now on, any updates you have for me, you make it known to me _directly_, no longer through Simms."

"Oh?" She blinked. She had expected quite the opposite, having interpreted his aloofness as a desire to no longer see her again.

"Simms may misinterpret something you report to him. It's best I hear everything about your progress, word for word. Either in person or from an owl. Though perhaps in person is best in case I require further explaining."

"Word for word... scientific jargon and all?" She raised an eyebrow. She cursed herself a little for being cheeky.

"I'm not stupid, Granger."

No, he was not. She studied him. His stern features and slate grey eyes bespoke an intelligence that reminded her of her own.

She nodded. "Alright then."

"Your tea, sir," a matronly-looking woman hastily interrupted, presenting her tray to Malfoy first, and then to Hermione. "Ms. Granger."

"Thank you, Gretchen," Draco said, then turning back to Hermione, "So, Granger. Now that that's settled. I'm curious, what do your... _esteemed_ friends think of our arrangement? Any scathing reproaches? Or threats of retracting their friendship from you, though I suppose that's more Weasley than Potter, isn't it?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed at the mention of their names. "I haven't told them. I was instructed to keep this case confidential, or have you forgotten?"

_"You're a snippy one, aren't you?"_ Draco felt like saying, but he held his tongue. He'd vowed to remain civil. He smiled teethlessly instead.

"I apologize for insulting your professionalism," he said smoothly, "It's just that I thought you shared everything with those two."

"Times have changed," Hermione said, shrugging, clearly not wanting to talk about it. Draco wondered why that was.

"Fair enough."

The two sipped their tea.

"I'm curious, though, Malfoy," Hermione said, steering the conversation away from herself, "Who is Scorpius' mother?"

Malfoy set his cup on the platter with a loud clink. "I don't particularly want to be rude, Granger, but it really is none of your concern," he said, mouth tightening.

Hermione laughed dryly. "I think we've reached an understanding then."

"I suppose."

"Not much fun to talk about anything else, is it?"

"That's not true," he disagreed. "There is the weather, of course. But that's reserved for a horribly unskilled conversant or for otherwise extremely awkward circumstances."

Hermione's mouth twitched. "Not the weather, then. I suppose we could talk of Ministry politics, or of Gringott's increasing debt. Or, we could talk about how odd it is that studying at Hogwarts felt like ages ago."

"I like the latter."

_This is strange_. Hermione eyed the blonde man in front of her. _Never did I think I'd be having tea with Draco Malfoy, and having a civil conversation about having a civil conversation._

"So Malfoy, tell me, how has life fared for you after Hogwarts, after the war?"

"Look around, that should tell you." He smirked.

She cracked a smile. "I'm sorry you're suffering so much financially."

"There's not much to say, really," he said. "Only that I've made a name for myself. Not just being Lucius Malfoy's son," his mouth twisted sardonically, "But I have a title now. Many titles, from managing several operations." He cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably, not wanting to go on and on for ages about himself. "And what about you? I know you're a scientist now, but before. What did you do?"

"I studied runes. Published one book, the other one's been terminated."

"A runes-master? I somehow didn't imagine you as that."

"It all started with reading _Spellman's Syllabary _in Flourish and Botts. I was a second year then." She smiled a bit at the memory. Despite herself, she began to relax. "I was fascinatedwith the runes, specifically the Germanic ones. How could something so... ancient still have any relevance in a modern world? It didn't fit. Just like I, a muggle-born, didn't fit."

Draco listened, eyebrows furrowing intensely as Hermione continued.

"But we- runes and I," she barked out a laugh, "We found our places in the magical world. Runes are said to be the basis of the spells we cast, and the basis of divination." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Granted, divination is a load of pig shite in my book. But still. It has a place in all this." She waved her hand in a vague gesture.

"And then, I suppose what really fueled my passion for runes was when I was pouring over that book of fables, looking for clues, discovering the Hallows. _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, it was_. _I trust you've seen my English translation in the stores, yes?"

She turned her eyes to Malfoy, clearly expecting an answer. He nodded tersely, not showing his admiration for the impressive woman before him.

"Didn't know it was yours."

Hermione chuckled without mirth. "You seem to be the type to judge a book by its cover, Malfoy," she said, curling her fingers at her sides. "Yet you don't see the name of the author."

"Or it doesn't process." He meets her stare evenly. "I see things, hear things. 'Goes in one ear, out the other,' isn't that the saying?"

Hermione studied him quietly. "No," she said at last. "I think you're lying."

A smile curved on his pale lips. "Is that so?"

"War changes people," Hermione said, "But you're still a liar, unreformed."

"Hmm," was all he said. He leaned forward, cocked his head to the side as though intrigued.

"You obviously retain things in that rattling brain of yours. You're calculating. You use things against people. They whisper secrets in your ear and you smile and assure them you're a sodding good _secret-keeper_, but you turn around and sell information to the highest bidder.

"You're the type to say, when someone says something against you, 'Don't worry about it,' or 'I don't care,' but you file their wrongdoing in that _brain_ of yours, and you'll hate them for eternity. The kind of man who keeps his head low, unthreatening until you find an opportunity to strike. Like a serpent. I'm not wrong, am I?" It was a question, and she knew she was being too daring, but she spoke confidently.

"You're not wrong," Draco murmured. "How else would I be operating an empire?"

Satisfied with his affirmation of her assessment, Hermione settled more comfortably into the chair, letting her neck arch back slightly, eyes wandering the room lazily.

A companionable silence settled in between them. Hermione looking everywhere in the room except for him; Draco staring only at her. She ignored the intensity of his gaze, willing her expression to remain indifferent.

Finally, Draco spoke again, his voice no longer terse, but amused. "So an unreformed liar. Harsh words, rather a serious accusation. Is there no hope for me?"

"None at all."

"How do you know? Coming from a witch who scorns divination?"

She met his slate grey eyes. "I just do."

He laughed at her then, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's what we like to tell ourselves, anyway."

Hermione felt something change subtly between them. A current of unease, she was unnerved by it. She took it as a cue from the universe to leave.

"Well, I'll be going now," she rose from her seat unceremoniously. "Thank you for your time and for the tea, Malfoy. It's been, er, _refreshing_ catching up with you. Do  
look for my owl sometime next week." She walked to the door quite hastily, muttering a thanks to the butler who opened the door for her.

"Oh, and Granger?" he said, an afterthought, just as she approached the door.

"Yes?"

"Give Potter and Weasley my regards."

As the door swung shut, and as the maidservant shuttled by him, Malfoy, now alone, didn't bother to suppress a smile. He could get under her skin, unnerve her if he wanted to- it would be easy: just say the Scarhead and Weaslebee's names, or mention her parents. The seemingly indestructible Hermione Granger had a few chinks in her armor after all.

* * *

**A/N: It's been a while, I know I know! Thank you for reading and reviewing, your support really keeps me going! 3 Let me know what you think of Hermione and Draco's meeting!**


	13. Changelings and Children

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-) **_

* * *

Breathlessly, Hermione threw open her office door, hair wild and frizzy and cheeks flushed from running in excitement. She'd just come back from a conference with muggle physicians and had just begun to feel inspired in her next steps in her research, when an owl appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Despite her mild annoyance at its random (and somewhat untimely- the muggles were barely out of sight when the spotted grey owl flew in) appearance, she skimmed the contents of message it held. Her purchase had just come in, and was waiting for her in the laboratory.

It'd been weeks since she's had a breakthrough- -if she didn't know any better she would assume that she simply wasn't clever enough- but now, here it was. The answer to Hermione's worries. Her main concern was testing directly on Scorpius, and though she followed the established methods of testing on animals and on Scorpius' stem cells, her limited time frame demanded testing on the subject almost immediately. It was fortunate, then, that Hermione had stumbled upon the contraband vendor in Knockturn Alley. It was he who gave her the changeling.

_The changeling_, Hermione thought with glee as she opened the crate in her office now, and carefully pried the large crate open.

A small child about Scorpius' size crouched in the corner of the box, shoulders hunched and face hidden from Hermione. He was naked, arms tangled tightly around his body. He reminded Hermione of a wounded animal in a cage, which she supposed he was, in a way. Though technically not an animal- a magical being; a sprite-child, similar enough to a human in its DNA with enough magical blood that, unless her hunch proved wrong, he would make an excellent substitute for Scorpius himself!

Hermione muttered a few protective spells before donning gloves and carefully lifting the now-screaming changeling out of the crate. Quickly, she injected a syringe into its arm, noting how resistant the magical being was to the sedative. It took a full minute, longer than any animal or human being, for the creature to slump, unresponsive.

Smiling to herself, Hermione took her time assessing, weighing and measuring the changeling before collecting the necessary samples.

_What a catch_, she mused, her mood light and airy- a rare event. _ I wonder if I could publish this, _her thoughts tingeing with regret, remembering Malfoy's original stipulations. _The scientific and magical community would benefit enormously from using changelings_.

_But no matter._

Her attention snapped to her next task, which she had scrawled excitedly on the whiteboard. She had a list of steps written out to be dutifully followed, and she could afford no distractions.

She carefully inoculated a single syringe from a vial containing the plasma DNA for the disease. Grimly, she set the vial down on the test tube rack, and then placed the changeling in the large glass tank she had installed for this express purpose. She watched the unconscious child-like creature as it slept in its glass prison, breathing somewhat shallowly. She reminded herself that it was not in fact an actual human being, and that technically there was nothing unethical about this situation- and besides, she'd done tons of unethical things as she made her mark in science; she hadn't been bothered much before, so there was no problem at all here.

A thrill shot up her spine. Her mind flashed to would-be visions of her, Hermione Granger, standing in front of an audience of thousands of people, lecturing as to how she cured the rare disease. Was that what she truly and desperately desired- fame? Recognition? Celebrity status?

She had always felt somewhat uncomfortable in the spotlight. And as she thought back to the times she, a part of the Golden Trio, made important appearances for the press, her stomach twisted in an uncomfortable knot.

And yet, she was ambitious. A strange feeling of entitlement shrouded her thoughts as she processed her feelings of the _unfairnes_s of it all- that she was the goddamn brains of the Golden Trio, and no one gave her much credit where it was due. She was a distinguished scientist now, and as a new member of an increasingly technological and scientific-oriented society, she was eager to prove her worth.

She glanced at the clock, figuring she had some time before meeting with the Malfoy family healers to discuss Scorpius' progress.

She meticulously punched in the measurements on her keyboard, fiddled with the keys, adjusting the data to fit Scorpius' measurements. According to her calculations, it would take two weeks for the test subject to develop the intermediate stages of hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis. Two weeks for the changeling to mirror Scorpius' condition. Satisfied with this conclusion, Hermione slipped on her coat and apparated.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Hermione was unconcernedly skimming the front section of the Daily Prophet when she noticed flashing lights in her peripheral vision. She glanced up, slightly annoyed, at the blue glow of LED lights, but her annoyance diminished the second she realized what it meant.

"INCUBATION COMPLETE," the words glowed, dancing on the monitor screen. Eagerly, like a child rushing to open presents from Father Christmas, Hermione rushed over to the monitor, checking the changeling's biostats on the screen. Skimming the data, Hermione determined with satisfaction that the subject was now sufficiently ill for treatment.

After taking the usual precautions, Hermione lifted the changeling out of the tank and, once placing the thrashing creature on the lab counter, injected it with the sedative. Working with speed and precision, Hermione darted two syringes into the spine- the first, a preparation of standard methotrexate, given in ridiculously high doses; the second, a modified blood replenishing potion. Hermione jotted down the time, mentally calculating that the deadly cocktail would soon take effect within the next twelve hours.

_Twelve hours_...

Until then, she had some catching up with Malfoy to do.

* * *

"I see you've been busy," was the first thing Draco said.

He skimmed the financial report, long fingers raking over the thick paper as he highlighted a row of figures. He looked up, expecting Hermione to look displeased at his micromanagement of her spending. To his surprise (and he managed to hide it fairly well), Hermione remained cheery.

"Someone's happy," he remarked at her pleased expression, his own annoyance beginning to show as his fingers turned the page. "And it's not me." He sighed, folding his hands. "Really, Granger, I know I've given you free reign of this project. And I'm normally not stingy in the slightest, but I have to know where all my funding is going. And this," he thrust the paper in front of her, tapping his finger on the highlighted row, "Is rather a spike in your spending. Twenty million galleons in the last few weeks. What for?"

"To cure your son," she said smartly, and she arched her brow as she sipped her tea. She ignored the paper in front of her.

"However so," he said coolly, not wanting to sneer. Once again, he found himself straining to remain civil to Hermione Granger.

"I've recently acquired a changeling," Hermione answered promptly, too cheerfully for his taste. Her cheerfulness unwelcomingly broke through his own brooding, reminding him of Umbridge and her garish office, and more recently, of the mediwizard who chirped Scorpius' diagnosis.

"Excuse me?" Draco blinked.

"A mystical being," she said breezily, "that is unknown to most of the wizarding world. Only briefly mentioned in our Care of Magical Creatures class, and only appearing in not more than four of the books in Hogwart's library, which I thought at the time rather odd, but now, after weeks of research I can see makes total sense."

"I'm aware of the folklore," he said tersely, not wishing to appear at a disadvantage, "About it being a fairy or troll often passing as a human replacing an actual child. We can skip ahead to how it actually _exists _in our real world."

"You're a see-it-to-believe-it sort of person, aren't you, Malfoy?" she laughed. "I am, too, don't worry." She nibbled on the sandwich his maid had brought her. "I wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't been brought to me, if I hadn't have seen it and tested on it. So yes, Malfoy, this is what I've been spending your money on- experimenting on the perfect magical host to cure your son."

"How did you-"

"It's contraband," she said almost gleefully- _Quite Slytherin of her, _Malfoy thought- "I was looking for dragon entrails and for a potion in Knockturn when a shoddy sort of bloke approached me. Wanted to know if I was interested in kappas and erumpent horns, and then, as I was about to walk on by, hissed out that he recently obtained a changeling."

"Naturally," she continued, silencing Draco as he opened his mouth, "I was skeptical, first of the fact that he even approached me about buying such rare and, er, illegal items, and not the other way around. And then of course I was skeptical of the very existence of changelings. Like you are." She nodded at him before continuing. "But he told me that if I didn't believe him I could go see it myself."

"And did you?" Draco managed to say amid Hermione's incessant talking.

"Yes," she answered. She leaned forward across the table, her brown eyes glimmering in excitement. She was only breaths away; he could smell the chrysanthemum tea on her breath.

"It was in the basement of this shop where the old Moribund's used to be," she said, "Locked up in a cage, filthy, bare-backed. It screamed and thrashed from its cage, but when I approached it, it became calm. Quite uncanny." She shook her head in amazement. "It looks like a real human being, a real boy. They say that a mother in Wales had noticed it first, claimed that her real boy was gone and this _thing _had taken its place."

"Scientifically, how can you even perform the same tests on it as a human being?"

"I'm thorough." She smiled at him, challenged him.

"I've asked you to tell me," he said.

_I'm not stupid, Granger," _he'd told her during their first meeting when she'd so rudely barged in his house. She remembered now.

"I've performed a DNA analysis on the changeling. It has twenty-three chromosome pairs, just like you and me. I was shocked, of course, didn't know what to expect, since according to folklore they're not really human beings."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Cut the commentary, please."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "If you insist," she muttered under her breath. "Anyway, their DNA sequence is 99.8 percent similar to our own human DNA, slightly more similar to that of chimpanzees. And while chimpanzees have twenty-three kilobases of telomeres in comparison to humans' mere ten telomeres- telomeres are the repeating DNA sequences at the end of each chromosome- this changeling has seventeen. I can go on about my analysis, and my findings based on blood work, antigens and antibodies and other types of proteins, you know- but you get the idea. Humans and this changeling have more genetic similarities than humans have with chimpanzees. This changeling is an answered _prayer_."

She paused, her eyes shining bright and questioning Draco. She wondered how much he understood. She suppose she wasn't surprised that he cocked his head thoughtfully, his eyebrows furrowed in thought, and nodded her to go on.

"And so in terms of magical blood- because, as you know, HLH is a rare exception to wizards' and witches' propensity to resist muggle diseases-"

"Yes?" Draco said impatiently.

"Patience, Malfoy." She sipped on her tea again, making sure to take her time with a long, slow sip before speaking. "I was able to perform an analysis of it as well and found that the changeling possesses just as much magical blood as a fairy... so almost twice as much more concentrated, in magical blood, than a human being-"

"Meaning that if you can cure the changeling, you will most definitely cure my son."

Hermione blinked in surprise. "Yes," she said slowly. "You've caught on quickly."

"And this is why I insisted on our meetings. You've underestimated me, Granger."

She bowed her head in mock-shame. "That I have," she admitted.

"I've scored top marks in Hogwarts, Granger, not far from you. And managed to sneak Death Eaters into the safest place in wizarding Britain," he reminded her, his voice devoid of the haughtiness she'd been accustomed to as a child.

"And yet you've also attempted to save me and Harry," she added softly, impulsively. The words had been coaxed out of her, so sneakily from her unawareness. She hadn't thought a whole lot about that day, when Snatchers had caught and presented herself and Harry before Bellatrix and Malfoy- but, thinking about it now, she supposed that Malfoy's hesitation and reluctance to identify them had been a way to save them.

As if knowing her thoughts, Malfoy spoke, his voice distant, looking away, "Don't read too much into it, Granger. What you're talking about... I'm not a hero. Don't confuse anything I do with kindness."

"Kindness and heroism don't necessarily have to intersect."

Why was she giving him a break, a chance to redeem himself? Draco uncomfortably shifted in his seat, almost wishing Hermione would go back to being that pious, haughty know-it-all, the girl that raised her hand to answer every question in class; the woman who assumed he didn't know jack shite about genetics.

Or was she just testing his limits? To see how much he would squirm under this jarring give-Malfoy-the-benefit-of-the-doubt treatment?

The Gryffindor stared at the Slytherin. Brown eyes probing the side of his pale neck, daring him to turn to meet her gaze. _Don't be a coward, _she silently urged him. _Look me in the eyes. Answer me._

She was disappointed when he finally did.

Cool grey eyes met her brown ones, his mouth pulled taut in a grim line. "Anything else you wish to discuss, Granger?"

"Just," she said, swallowing her disappointment, "Just Scorpius."

He met her gaze levelly, attention focused on her completely now.

"I've met with his team of healers. They know nothing about the changeling, so naturally they were hesitant about the more aggressive push in Scorpius' treatment, but no matter. They've agreed to work with me in this." She paused, hesitating. "Draco... do you know how I figured out it was you? Who hired me, I mean."

He shook his head, not understanding where this was going. "I assume you analyzed the DNA I've provided you."

"Yes," she replied. "You and your son's. I found a disproportionate amount of genetic sequence that you and your son shared. And the nature of HLH is, well, oftentimes due to incest."

"What do you want to know Granger," he said shortly.

"Was Scorpius conceived out of incest?"

Malfoy's nostrils flared. Hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white, he leaned slightly away from her. He wondered, among many, many dark things, if he should level the field, so to speak, and be as intrusive and rude as Granger was to him, and to invade her mind using Occumelency.

He wanted to.

"How is this information pertinent to your curing my son?" he asked coldly.

Hermione swallowed nervously, willing her Gryffindorian courage to return to her. Desire pushed her to this point- the desire to know; the question had been nagging her since she took on Malfoy's case, but she'd managed to quell it out of social propriety. But the desire was too strong; it prevailed upon etiquette and suddenly in this moment, it was all she wanted to know.

"It'll determine the course of treatment," she answered, with dry lips.

He looked at her, long and hard. Saw, through cutting eyes, Hermione's tight smile, flickering eyes, and knew that she was lying. His own eyes narrowed dangerously, his lip curling cruelly.

_I can cut you down, bitch_.

"Tread carefully, Granger," was what he said instead, lips barely moving. He crossed one long leg over the other, taking care to smooth a crease of his dress pants, keeping his eyes on her as he did.

"So is that a yes, Malfoy?"

He heard the waver in her voice, saw her uncertainty as she brought her shoulders forward in a botched attempt at nonchalance.

He paused before answering, carefully contemplating his answer.

"It is."

Barely a moment had passed before he stood abruptly.

"That's all you're getting out of me today, Granger," he said, his long legs carrying him across the room. He gestured for her to get up. "I don't take kindly to liars."

She opened her mouth in protest, but he simply tutted. "Such a shame, Granger. I count on your honesty to do business with, and I invite you into my home. And you repay me with a bald-faced lie under such a _weak_ guise to satisfy your own curiosity."

He opened the door for her and waited for his butler to retrieve her coat and hat.

"One more question, Malfoy-" she turned suddenly.

He touched her then, for the first time since they shook hands on that first day. He spun her shoulder so that she was no longer facing him, and quite forcefully that she almost stumbled forward.

"I think I'm getting to know you pretty well, Granger. Either that or you're becoming predictable." He smirked. "To answer your question... I know you're lying because I audited your spending report. You've bought... _quite a bit_ of those drugs and potions, which you wouldn't have if you weren't absolutely confident about what you were doing. If there was incest or not. 'Determining the course of treatment'?" He quoted her words mockingly. "I've told you before, Granger. I'm not stupid."

"And maybe I should tell you now," he said, coming closer. His cool breath fanned against her face. A breeze. A threat. "Don't try to beat a serpent at its own game. You won't win."

He slammed the door in her face.

* * *

**A/N: How are we feeling so far?! Someone told me that the dialogue between Hermione and Draco is a bad too pretentious and grammatically proper for the average person... but it's a reminder, though, that these are two extraordinary characters, both geniuses in their respective fields. &amp; don't worry, a full explanation of Scorpius' parentage will be explained! Until next time... xoxoxo Besos **


	14. A Curiosity as Pure as Blood

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

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Hermione glanced at the box at her feet, and then at the nearly-blank walls of her flat. She had no muggle television set, no muggle technology save for her laptop resting on the small oak writing desk. And yet, there wasn't much in her place to indicate she was a witch, either- she owned none of the Burrow's magiked contraptions, not even a single moving photograph. She was a simple woman. The only wall furnishing she had, even after four years of living in her London flat, was the sensible mahogany clock that ticked closer towards another nondescript evening.

She squatted, her tendrils perilously close to dragging on the carpet, and sifted a hand through the contents of the box, lazily waiting for her hand to brush against the thick tome she was searching for. She picked up a thick, wooden plaque instead.

It was a Ministry award for her valiant efforts in the Battle of Hogwarts. With disgust, she threw it behind her, hearing the dull thump of wood as it muffled against the carpet. She curled a lip in disdain and fished out another plaque from the box. And another. And another. Each one bearing different inscriptions. _Most Prodigious Witch of the Order of Phoenix. Winner of the Yvarve-Teller Award, for Best House-Elf Liberation Policy. Gold Medal for Exceptional Archaeological Achievement, given by The Rune Institute of Great Britain._

Remnants of a life she'd left a lifetime ago. She felt nothing, absolutely nothing as she stared at the awards in front of her.

Huffing a sigh, she pulled out the last object in the bin, grunting as she lifted the heavy book onto her lap. She found what she was looking for at last. Hermione stared at the velvet-bound book in satisfaction.

_The Pureblood Directory._ It was a beautiful leather-bound book with a plum-colored velvet covering- _absolutely gorgeous_, noted the bibliophile. Hermione stroked the spine, admiring the intricately etched pattern. Her contentment, however, soured as she remembered the circumstances in which she'd bought it. Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies had begun calling her Mudblood, and when she found the book in an antique shop she bought it, thinking that in understanding their ancestry she could rationalize these purebloods' sense of entitlement. Soften them, humanize them somehow.

She barked a dry laugh. How utterly soft and stupid she had been. Bleeding heart and all.

Hermione sifted her fingers through the pages, turning the leaflets over until she arrived at the page with the Malfoy family tree. She traced the lineage until she found Draco Malfoy's name. Abraxas Malfoy siring only one son, Lucius Malfoy... wed to Narcissa Black, producing only Draco... Narcissa, sister to Andromeda and Bellatrix, the latter of whom was dead... Andromeda Tonks, whose only daughter was Nymphandora, also dead...

Hermione grimaced, feeling nauseated. The only two possibilities of Scorpius' mother were Narcissa and Andromeda, and they were both too old to bear children.

_There's no way in_ hell _Malfoy would bed his mother or aunt._

Hermione tapped her finger against the book. _Think. Who else... _

The Malfoys, she knew, were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Perhaps it was possible, then, that somehow he had... _aligned_ himself with another pureblood of the Twenty-Eight? Someone relatively close enough in blood to him that their coupling would produce genetic abnormalities? She didn't entertain that thought for long. It was ridiculous; there could be no one else besides the Malfoys themselves.

Then she scoffed at the ridiculousness of it all. What business of hers was it, anyhow, to be nosing around Malfoy's family lineage? What did it matter to her that Malfoy sired a child from incest?

She remembered her encounter with Malfoy. He'd been furious that she brought up the sordid topic. She supposed she deserved his fury from asking impertinent questions. But instead of feeling chagrin, she was bewildered with his admittance that yes, he had committed incest.

He was a modern man, not bound by the old pureblood tradition of marrying only pureblood relatives. And certainly he understood how repulsive it was in this day and age, if anyone had ever found out.

"And what's more," Hermione mused aloud, baffled, "He was honest about it." His frankness was what had caught her off-guard the most, not so much the act itself. He had known she lied to him, and despite knowing this, had chosen to answer her question anyway. She disclosed nothing about herself, nothing too revealing at least, and he chose to confess something private to her, thereby putting himself at a disadvantage.

_This man..._

This was not the Malfoy she knew.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you everyone for your feedback! (Also, shout out to the guest reviewer who caught my error in the Ch. 8.) I've been getting a lot of guesses as to who Scorpius' mother is, and some of your speculations are pretty close to what I've got written. You'll find out in the next chapter! So until then, happy reading. xoxo, Besos**


	15. Demons Have a Face, Too

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-) **_

* * *

Simms showed up at Malfoy's office, clutching a tumbler of coffee in his hands. He'd just run from the coffee shop across the street, and cursed his luck that the sky was openly pouring. He wished he could magik his shoes dry- another reminder that he was a failure of a man- and he wished for the second best thing: more time to dry himself. His job position, however, entailed that he'd be perpetually short on time. Malfoy operated on a strict schedule, and demanded his employees to do the same. And so here he was, entering the spacious office, praying his employer would not look up from his desk to see his drenched pants and shoes. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Malfoy's bent head of white-blond hair working over his desk.

"Speak," Malfoy said dispassionately, not bothering to look up from the paperwork he was entrenched in. "Update me."

"We've finally negotiated with Japan Tuesday," Simms said, fixing his glasses, which, thanks to his run, were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. "So now we control most of the lumber imports to the country, and by extension, their wand-making industry. Also. Five of our muggle stocks have notably increased in value, except the toothpaste company- that remains static." He paused for a breath.

"And?" Malfoy's voice was muffled. He was bending under his desk, probably opening a filing cabinet, Simms assumed. He continued, keeping the waver out of his voice.

"Our lobbyists have successfully pushed the Equal Pay for Witches addendum onto Wizengamot's agenda. We've fixed the leak in our intelligence; turns out one of our brokers was selling information to a hacking company. All is good, sir, we've squirreled the scoundrel away in Azkaban, and have severely discredited the hackers. No need to worry, sir." He looked to Draco for validation. Draco nodded in silent confirmation. Satisfied, Simms continued, reciting the last of the news. "And finally, as per your request, you're giving a small press conference to announce your attendance to the Ministry's annual gala."

"Very good." Malfoy looked up briefly, glancing at Simms' soggy shoes in distaste. "Why are your feet wet, Simms, it's mucking up my carpet."

"It's raining, sir."

Malfoy scoffed, and, fixing Simms a withering stare, muttered a spell beneath his breath, drying Simms and the spot of carpet he stood on.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Simms. Ask Jones or Harper to magik you up. Otherwise, do it manually. I'll not have you looking like filth and making my place filthy."

The squib flushed in embarrassment, but nonetheless nodded in agreement. "Y- yes sir," he sputtered.

Malfoy sighed as Simms left his office. He picked up a glass paperweight from his desk and mindlessly turned it over in his hands. He knew he spoke unnecessarily harshly to the poor man... but he was already in a foul mood. The stormy sky didn't help either, nor did the stacks of paperwork piling up on his desk. And on top of that, he had very little sleep the night before. He had been up for most of the night, gleaning only an hour of sleep before dressing for work. His mind entangled in thoughts of Scorpius and his appointments for the week, and of how he was failing as a father. Though Scorpius would never see it that way. At least not now. _But_, Draco thought acerbically_, if he's older he'll see how bloody messed up his father is_.

_When_, Draco reminded himself, horrified, _when, not if_. But it was too late; the negativity he'd managed to ward off the entire day now suffused his mind. He steeled himself in determination, not wanting to sink below the tide of emotions pulling him under-

_She smiled at him. A smile he would have dismissed as coy, if not entirely; his old self would've unceremoniously risen from the bed to stuff his pants back on, and stalk to the door without a second glance to the damn wench. And he would have done so now, too, if it weren't for that long stare, a look too long- her eyes pierced through him as though she knew everything about him- _

_Stop it, _Draco muttered to himself, gritting his teeth-

_Dark tresses fanned her face, beautiful but ghostly, like a nymph_-

_No_\- he sank to the floor, cradling his head as he fought the memories, but they kept coming-

_He looked at her white skin , saw the vibrantly purple bruises he'd left on her when they had shagged like animals-_

Glass shattered, pulling Draco back to the present. He stared at his clenched hand, blood oozing from his palm. He opened his fisted hand slowly, staring at the glass paperweight he was holding only moments before, and now here it was, crushed.

_Well good_, he thought, staring blankly at the blood, the cuts, the crushed glass. He wanted to do more damage to something other than a bloody glass paperweight. He wanted to slash something with his own hands, tear at a blank canvas of bare skin- not with magic but with his own hands. He wanted to feel the scraping of _something_ with his own claws, to see a crust of mingled blood and skin beneath his nails. Fury consumed him, dared him, taunted him, reminding him of the murderous rage that engulfed him when Granger so impertinently asked him about Scorpius' parentage...

Grateful for the distraction, his mind latched on eagerly to that more recent memory. He handled himself well, hadn't he? He was calm and collected; didn't lash out or make it seem like the very remembrance of that night with _her_ suffocated him. He also admitted the truth to Granger, and though in the moment he didn't fully understand why he'd done so, now he knew...

He had a small inkling that day why he'd answered her truthfully, why he didn't just lie since lying came naturally to him. But something was different this time. Something had clicked within him, nudged him forward. _Acknowledge the past_, a part of him whispered, _acknowledge it and move on_. To let fear consume him would give permission to a force outside of himself to possess him. To enslave him.

Truth be told, he was frustrated that the whole sordid ordeal had frightened him so easily and had incited such a response in front of an audience- in front of Granger, of all people. That he'd allowed fear to swallow him whole in its fat belly.

Draco was struck by a sudden strong desire- the desire to break free, to no longer hide. He hated the sniveling coward people suspected him of, suspecting but not really knowing. Only _he_ knew the extent of his cowardice, just _him_, andhis own opinion was the only one that mattered, wasn't it?

With disdain, he thought of the direction his life had been heading: seeking validation from other zombies- those walking corpses with plastered smiles and dully beating hearts. Tip-toeing in shadows, cowering in fear of the pain of the past.

_No, thank you_, he thought, face heating with colour. That sort of life wasn't good enough for him anymore. He decided to join the ranks of the living, and living he must go on.

**A/N: I'm on a roll here! Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up within the next few days, so be on the look out for that! Thank you to all my readers, especially those who have been continually reviewing and supporting this project of mine. :) Always interested in what you guys think! 3 xoxo Besos**


	16. Veritas

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

* * *

"A glass of wine?" Draco cocked an eyebrow and poured a glass from the wine bottle he held loosely in his hands.

"Please." Hermione hesitantly accepted the glass he offered her.

She lowered her eyes and murmured her thanks. She took a sip, enjoying the sweetness before placing the glass aside on the table that separated her from Malfoy. She shook her leg- a nervous tick she did from time to time. She wasn't sure what to make of everything- the offering of wine, and Malfoy's courteous behavior despite their chilly parting last week.

Draco's eyes slid beneath the table, noticing her shaky leg. He missed nothing. "Don't be nervous, Granger," he said softly. "I don't bite. Much."

"I know what you're thinking," he murmured, when Hermione didn't say anything. "This is a strange call. I know, I know, I usually don't invite you over, not intentionally. And you're wondering why there's wine out, not tea."

_Wine_, Hermione repeated grimly. _The loosener of tongues_. She wondered what Malfoy wanted from her.

"Funny thing about wine... it loosens the tongue."

Hermione blinked distrustfully. He was a Legilimens, she remembered suddenly, and with an awful churning in her stomach she wondered if he knew her thoughts.

"What are you getting at, Malfoy?" she asked carefully.

He smirked. Not disdainfully, Hermione noted. But in a way that hinted as much mischief as misery. In a way that left her feeling... unexpectedly curious.

He caught her staring at his lips. He lowered his lids lazily before meeting hers. She looked away, embarrassed.

"It just so happens I need to get... something off my chest."

"Oh?" she managed, still not wanting to meet his gaze.

"The thing about muggles," he said, "Is that they are _vastly _unappreciated for their..._cultivation_ of liquor. Geniuses. To distill whiskey or ferment grapes to produce this-" he raised the glass, like a toast- "...is magic itself."

"It basically is a potion." Hermione shrugged. She took a long sip, waiting for him to go on.

"A potion indeed." He bobbed his head in agreement. He leaned forward, nose flaring as he sniffed his wine. "Aromatic, but not quite as much as Amortentia. But it can still lead to the same outcome as the love potion." Then he did something very odd- he leaned in, and sniffed her hair.

Hermione stiffened. "Malfoy?" she managed. She pulled away uneasily.

"Sorry," he said, closing his eyes. "I was merely curious." He thrummed his fingers against the bottle of his favorite vintage port.

"Perhaps you should tell me what this is about." She eyed Malfoy's nearly-gone glass.

He sighed. "All business and no pleasure, aren't you?" He waited for her reply.

"Sometimes I believe business and pleasure shouldn't mix."

"I suppose so. But on this particular evening I don't see why they should not." He watched, amused, as Hermione nervously licked her lips.

"Relax, Granger. I don't mean anything improper by it. Don't you read, or listen to stories for pleasure?"

Hermione cocked her head, brow furrowing in confusion. "I do, but I don't see-"

"Are you ready to hear a sad tale?" He suddenly leaned towards her, eyes glittering like beetles. Hermione involuntarily flinched; he was so close.

"Do you mean..._ your_ tale?" she swallowed. It took a second too long to understand- she blamed the alcohol for dulling her quick thinking. She realized he was about tell her about Scorpius' mother.

"But of course," he said. "And like many sad stories, they involve a war. A war that leaves people... not who they were before. Or maybe... people remain the same, it's just that war reveals what they _really _are like." And then he began to chuckle, his laughter rising higher in pitch. Hermione briefly wondered if he had a bit of madness in him after all.

"After the war," he continued, after catching his breath. His features hardened, a mask now. "There was... philandering. Well, you know how people are, Granger, I don't need to explain it to you do I?"

"War breaks people," she said in understanding. "And you do things to fix yourself."

"Precisely."

He ran a hand through his sleek hair. "This particular instance... I was at a party. Nott had invited the lot of us over, and I had too much to drink. You know how it goes..." The life in his eyes dimmed, and he suddenly looked years older. "The last thing I remember that evening was a woman, and I remember, very clearly, there was something familiar about her pointed chin, almost like my own... but alcohol dimmed everything, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up next to this woman, entangled. Bound," he choked out.

He shook his head, seeing the alarm in Hermione's eyes.

"Not bound by a spell or by magic. Though they say blood is like magic. She's my half sister-" Hermione started.

"She's my sodding half sister," he repeated. "I won't tell you her name, it doesn't matter anyway, she's as good as dead to us..."

_With alarm, he felt her hands caressing his shoulder possessively. He avoided her eyes, instead choosing to look at her strong and wiry arms tensing as though ready to snap something violently... like his neck, for instance, which she was cradling now.. Regret washed over him, and he immediately knew something had gone wrong._

"She told me who she was. That we had the same mother. And at first I didn't believe her. But she told me that if I didn't believe her, to ask my parents, and if I_ really_ didn't believe her, to take her home with me. So that night I did, and I find out the loveliest little bedtime story. The biggest lie of my life.

"I was humiliated, but my mother was even more. My parents were _furious_, of course, that my sister dared to find me, sully me, and then show up in their goddamn _villa_." He spat the word. "And of course, bear my child." Draco's eyes flickered away.

"You see, my mother was raped," he whispered, shutting his eyes. "It was during the height of the Dark Lord's rise to fame, before I was born, before Potter survived the first avada. She was on her way to meet Bellatrix when a Death Eater dragged her away. Beaten the shite out of her, crucioed her, imperiused her.

"Of course, Mother was shaken from this, wanted the baby out, but a Malfoy is a Malfoy no matter whose it really was, and so the babe must remain in the world." He spoke this part bitterly. "That was Father's persuasion. Mother, of course, wanted the child gone, so they gave it away.

"Her," he amended hastily. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Your half sister," Hermione breathed. His eyes flashed dangerously, as if to forbid any interruptions.

He continued. "My half sister," he repeated slowly. "The madwoman. Of course I didn't know anything about her existence until it was too late."

Questions assaulted Hermione's mind, and she struggled to remain silent despite wanting the missing pieces of the puzzle. _What happened to her, and how did she find you, and why did she do this to you, and why isn't Scorpius with her now_, she wanted to know, but the tightness in Malfoy's face stopped her lips from opening.

"It was a bloody shock, I'm sure you can imagine. Actually, you can't," he said harshly. "But I'll do my best to enlighten you. Imagine being lied to your whole life. Imagine, if you will, your parents raising you, spoiling you all this time because you were the only child, their goddamn prize... and you go along your whole life knowing that, and feeling lonely in that, when all of a sudden a goddamn hurricane comes and you're left wondering... how the hell did this all happen."

They locked eyes for a moment, before Draco looked away, eyes skittering across the room. It was apparent he wasn't going to say anything more.

The sitting room suddenly felt too small, and Draco was painfully aware that he and Hermione were breathing the same air stifling the room- the same air that he had just breathed perhaps his biggest secret. He cursed himself for being stupid, for being reckless like a sodding Gryffindor with all these bloody _feelings_, and he was about to get up and ask her to leave when she finally spoke.

"It's not that your parents didn't love you any less; if anything they loved you more."

He started at that. He was expecting some other tune, something along the lines of "I can't imagine how you feel, Draco, but I'm so sorry," something placating and cliché. She didn't sound as though she pitied him, yet there was a softness in her voice that made him defensive.

"Love," he barked a laugh, the sound abrasive, sandpaper-like. "They love me, yeah? So they do. But the thing is they lied to me. Love isn't the end-all answer to every problem. Maybe... maybe it's the start to the problem."

He looked away. "At any rate, I would have liked to know growing up that I had a sister. Even if they told me she had died or... or something. Then at least I'd have some sort of idea of her, some savior type shite, I don't know. She could've been a goddamn angel. Not..." His face contorted in rage, ugly and burning and _stinging_, and he desperately held onto control, "Not a fucking _viper_."

He flicked his hand violently at that, sending his glass flying across the room. An otherwise empty glass, he sneered to himself, as he pettily searched for signs of a mess on the carpet. Here he was rambling, light-headed on his fourth glass of the evening. Rambling to fucking perfect Hermione Granger.

She looked at him almost pityingly, and a bit of his heart shattered, like the wine glass and stupid paperweight from earlier that day. He broke a lot of things, he realized, and he was good at it. Breaking things and not fixing them. _Fixing things- that's what _her _lot does_. Feeling petty and a faintly drunk, Draco brashly asked her, "Stop ogling me, Granger. I don't need your judgment or your pity. You Gryffindors and your bleedin' _morals. _Or was it your_ muggle_ parents who raised you to be all that- pitying and so bloody _righteous_ all the time?"

Hermione looked down at her lap, her face burning. Her entire body stiffened.

"My parents are dead," she said simply.

"Oh," was all Draco managed, and though the alcohol streamed freely in his blood, empowering him to do all sorts of things- cruel things, stupid things, ridiculous things - he, too, became still.

Amidst the quietness that followed, Hermione heard the muffled scuttling of the help staff somewhere in the house and the slow heavy ticking of the clock on the mantle.

_Could silence draw out madness? _she wondered, startled as Malfoy leaned forward, closing in the space between them. She noted his eyes were no longer the steely grey they were moments ago; strangely enough, they had lost its coldness. His hands were warm too; he squeezed her hands briefly before pulling away.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, knowing full well that this gesture was brought upon by the wine. She wasn't bothered by that fact, not really. If anything, she was perplexed that mere muggle liquor managed to undo Malfoy's efforts to appear stony and unfeeling to the world.

"Thank you though," she said at last. "For telling me about Scorpius. Even though I, I suppose don't deserve an explanation."

He nodded. "It wasn't just for your benefit, Granger."

"I know," she murmured. She trusted her gut on this one. Of course Malfoy had ulterior motives for everything.

"And," she hesitated. "And thank you for this, too," she said, looking down at her hand.

"Until the next time, Malfoy," she said softly. She carefully placed her glass away from the edge of the table, wary that it should break like Malfoy's. She murmured an excuse for leaving and waited as he had his butler bring her things.

Smiling slightly, he watched her retreating form. His fingers still burned from where he touched her.

* * *

**A/N: Not sure how you guys must be feeling about this... I'm a bit nervous to see what y'all think. I myself have really strong feelings about writing this chapter and have struggled to make this chapter satisfying to both myself and to my readers. If anyone is left feeling a bit unsatisfied, I understand. I dislike it when stories are engaging at first, but then become "ruined" when an over-ambitious writer needlessly complicates the plot, sometimes in ways that don't make sense, and adding in new characters to the mix. Also, I can assure all of you: Draco's coupling with his half-sister is NOT meant to be the main plot line driving his relationship with Hermione, nor is meant to define the story's plot as a whole . This is only the beginning for Dramione, and hopefully you're just as excited as me to see how it plays out! As always, I look forward to your thoughts. Please review or send me a PM! xoxo, Besos.**


	17. A New Tune

**_DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-) _**

* * *

**Two weeks later**

* * *

The soft humming woke him.

Scorpius blinked sleepily, awake from his nap. He heard the melodic rift- the high, clear notes that broke through the usual crispness of his father's voice- before he even saw the pale yellow lights glowing from under his bedroom door.

Curious, the boy pulled himself out of bed, hesitantly resting his hand on the doorknob. Daddy would be mad at him for not being asleep- "You need rest, plenty of it," he always scolded him- but Scorpius was too drawn to the sound.

He carefully stepped out of his room, quietly letting the door swing behind him. Silently, like the ninjas he'd seen on muggle television, Scorpius crept towards the direction of Draco's singing.

"You in that dress-"

Scorpius edged closer, seeing at first his father's bare torso and then glimpses of the large scar on his forearm.

"My thoughts I confess-"

Scorpius craned his neck. His father stared at his own reflection in the mirror, frowning quite seriously as he guided his hand, clenching a razor-blade, across the sculpted surface of his cheekbone.

"Verge on dirty-"

Another smooth stroke, and he was done. He leaned closer to the mirror, slightly hunched with palms flat against the sink countertop. He furrowed his brows in appraisal, tilting his chin this way and that. He touched a corner of his chin, and feeling the remaining stubble, grimaced.

"Oh, come on Eileen..." Draco finished singing under his breath.

Scorpius furrowed his brow. Who was this Eileen his daddy was singing about? As far as he knew, his daddy wasn't seeing anyone. The only girl that ever came to their home was Dr. Granger... Scorpius' eyes widened. Maybe Eileen was Dr. Granger? It was a pretty name, he decided, a shy smile curving his lips. Eileen Granger. Maybe he could find a girl someday with as pretty a name as that.

Then his father did something quite odd (though it was strange enough that he'd been singing). Was his- was his father practicing smiling? Scorpius grinned cheekily as he watched Draco experimentally lift a corner of his lips, then the other. He smiled at first without showing teeth, then again, this time prying open his lips revealing his slightly crooked teeth. Immediately he grimaced, shaking his head in disgust. With a heavy sigh, he checked his watch.

"Dammit," he muttered, and hurriedly ran a comb through his hair. Scorpius flattened against the wall as his father made rapid movements, still able to hear his grumbling. "That damn witch and her insistence on showing up _right on the bloody dot_."

"_Normal _witches say eight and they come round eight-_fifteen_, but no, _this one_ insists on showing up smartly at _eight_..."

Scorpius fled to his room just as he heard approaching footsteps. Pressing his ear to the door, he could still hear Draco muttering to himself, mostly cursing Dr. Granger.

Why was Daddy so mad at the nice doctor? She was nice enough to him, and she gave Scorpius small packages of cauldron cakes whenever he went in for a checkup. He couldn't help but worry that his dad had gone a bit mad.

* * *

**A/N: The song featured here is Come on Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners! **

**Oh and yes, sometimes Draco shaves by hand. ;) **


	18. Cowards in Cloaks

**_DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)_**

* * *

It was like a scene from a muggle movie.

He was the pathetic man who crawled home in the rain, head bowed, ashamed like a chagrined puppy. He was the cheater.

She was the woman who took him back.

And like in the movies, she was the righteous woman, angry and shaky and fuming and scared. Her anger was justified. It rattled in her bones. Merlin, she even had that billowing red hair, as red and angry as the sun.

_But what they don't show the audience in the movies, see, is the struggle,_ Harry thought to himself grimly. Maybe they only show ten minutes at most. But the entire film wouldn't be devoted to the struggle his life had become, the struggle that was longer than ten minutes of screen time, the struggle of lifetime redemption.

_No_, Harry thought bitterly, _If things were only that simple_. The cheater forgiven. Apologies spoken and eventually accepted (with some resistance and hesitance, as the genre usually mandated).

Ginny had a word for those women who accepted their cheating partners. For the past month, she thought about how she had felt about becoming one of those women, the ones that pushed away all their hurt and pain and fury because the the missing-him hurt even more than his unfaithfulness. _Weak_, was the word Ginny used to describe them. After the war she taken a vow to never be weak again. And, as recent events had taught her, never would she become weak because of Harry Potter.

She convinced herself it wasn't weakness for accepting her husband into her home. _If anything_, she thought, gritting her teeth, _it's strength._

She accepted him because her son would not shut _up _about his father. The tantrums and the screaming- it gave her horrible migraines, and she just wanted them to bloody _stop. _

She accepted him because she was strong and she knew it; she was the heroine in one of those films she'd always mocked; those films in which all heroes were women and all men were filth, and this film was now her life.

And she accepted him because she got word from Hannah, who got word from Lee, who got word from Blaise, that Harry was not doing well. And despite her anger with him, she still did care for him. Cared enough that he remain alive.

Seeing him on her front porch, she wanted to slap him. But she remembered to contain herself. She remembered that the man who killed Voldemort was still here, technically- the body of the brave soul she fell in love with. The truth, though- the truth was that he was just a shell of his former self.

_An auror, yes_, Harry thought, hating himself. He faced his wife, looked into her sharp brown eyes. _A successful auror_-

_One who now guards the Minister himself_\- admitted Ginny, staring back-

_One who is a coward_, Harry thought, seeing her twitching palm, and with shame, knew that her quaking palm longed to strike his face-

_\- He is a coward _-

\- _I am a coward_, Harry repeated to himeslf, blinking madly, willing Ginny to not look away_, not look away_, _please, or she won't see me anymore, won't hear me out_-

\- _And a liar _-

"Daddy?!"

There was James, his dark hair and elfish face peeking from behind Ginny. He pushed his way past his mum and teetered towards Harry, shrieking excitedly.

"But he belongs here," Ginny told herself as she watched father and son reunite, "I suppose." The happy tangle of limbs and black hair shrieked and laughed so loudly that Ginny had to cast a silencing spell. She turned away quickly, not seeing Harry's pleading face when he glanced up from his embrace with James.

* * *

It's been weeks and she won't say more than five words at a time to him.

She might as well have said, "Noun adverb verb pronoun noun," and it would've been the same, he thought.

"James got sent home today," she told him today. She briefly faced him before turning around. Her arm rested on the windowsill, her slim finger lingering on the dust collecting on the lattice. She hadn't lifted a finger, or a wand, to do her chores since Harry came home. _Let him do all the work_, she thought. She was exhausted from a day 's work at St. Mungo's, and didn't want Harry's watchful stare and endless questions. She'd made tea to help calm her nerves, but what she really wanted were a few pints.

Harry counted her words in his head. Five words exactly, Harry said to himself grimly. No more, no less.

"Merlin. What for?"

He stepped forward, wanted his arms to wrap around hers soothingly while talking about their son like a regular couple, one that had fewer marital problems.

"For fighting."

Two words.

Harry frowned. "That doesn't sound like him, Gin."

"No," she said. "But then again, you weren't here as of late."

Ten words. But Harry knew better than to hope.


	19. Savages

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-) **_

* * *

"_Expecto_ _patronum_."

The silvery-white stag danced in front of Harry's eyes. He trained his wand on the stag, silently willing the patronus to transcribe a message from his thoughts. He sent the patronus to Kingsley, his gut clenching with guilt that he couldn't guard minister today for the Bulgarian meeting. But Harry knew he'd experience far greater guilt if he hadn't volunteered to pick up his son from primary school. Last night, he'd apologised profusely to Ginny after she refused to speak with him for an entire day.

"Show me," she'd finally said with thin lips, and he understood. He was determined to show her that he was good enough to be with his family.

Of course, there were other reasons to pick up his son. He missed James and wanted to be in every part of his son's life. And also, he admitted to himself, the investigator in him wanted to see for himself if James was really behaving violently. _Fighting_\- that was what Ginny had said, not merely squabbling. He didn't actually think his tiny five-year old would be capable of bruising another child's face, as the mother of said child coldly informed Ginny. No, it simply wasn't possible. Not his James.

Harry apparated to the small school, winding past the surprisingly jail-like hallways and rows of shut doors until he arrived at the playground. His jaw dropped when he saw two witches restraining his son and another boy. Other children had encircled them, some crying at the strife that had just ensued, but most whining that the fight was over.

"James!" Harry's voice rose sharply, seeing his son struggle against the restraints of an incarcerous spell. Alarmed, he flashed to his son's side. _Surely there must be some other reason... _he thought with doubt, as he freed his child from the binding.

"Why did you use a fully-binding _incarcerous_ on my _five year old_?" He seethed, turning his attention to the witch closest to him. "A simple shielding charmwould have done the trick. Is this school that I am paying _galleons_ really this _barbaric_? Incompetent," he fumed, and he hugged the boy close to his body, stroking his hair. He assessed James for signs of damage. A few scrapes marred the underside of his chin, but other than that, James appeared unharmed. He wished he could say the same for the other boy in restraints. He felt a stab of pity for the youngster, whose entire body was covered in oozing scrapes.

"Surely you can see, Mr. Potter, why we took such necessary steps," the blonde witch said flatly. "And after today, your son is now expelled from our care. Lawrence's parents may even press charges against you."

"He started it!" James blubbered defiantly. He thrashed around in his dad's arms to face his accuser. He pointed at the boy he'd beaten up. "He took my broomstick." He gestured wildly to the splintered toy at his feet, "And he _broke _it."

"James- " Harry gave a sigh, at a loss for words. He shook his head. "Come on. We're going home."

But the witch pulled him aside. "Mr. Potter," she said hesitantly. "I'm sure you've never imagined that James would behave so disruptively. But he in the last few weeks he's been a brute. And one wonders whether he's suffered such brutish treatment from his parents." She lowered her eyes. "I'm inclined to notify child protection services."

All blood seemed to drain from Harry's face. "This is ridiculous," Harry hissed, fearing his voice would shake if he spoke more loudly. For a moment he wanted to shout, "_Don't you know who I am?_" but thought better of it. Instead, he heard himself say, "This is a _serious _accusation. I have never _hit _my son in my entire life. Never. But if you don't believe me, go and talk to the Ministry; they can conduct your bloody investigation. And maybe they can also investigate why _your _facility allows full-on adult hexes on mere _children_. Maybe they will find your disciplining approaches, what did you call it, '_brutish._'"

The witch scowled. Harry felt a stab of satisfaction. "Just take him and _go_."

"Gladly," he muttered under his breath. He took James by the arm and grimly led him out of the courtyard to apparate home.

But as he gripped James' hand, Harry glanced at his son, perturbed by what he saw in James' eyes. There was a certain savageness that glinted in those muddy green irises. One that he'd seen plenty of times in the war- when people were pitted against other people, prepared to take another's life in desperate measures to ensure dominion. It was a brutality as old as time, feral and primitive, and one that he recognised within virtually every being he knew. And with an unpleasant lurch of his stomach, he realised the savagery in his child's eyes was a mirror image of his own.

* * *

**A/N: Any thoughts on Harry and his family? Looking forward to hear from you guys, as always. :) Look out for the next chapter... there will be more Dramione! xoxo, Besos.**


	20. A Knock, A Conversation, A Destination

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

* * *

As things usually began between them, it started with the doorbell ringing.

His butler would answer the door, usher Hermione in, and there she would sit across from him. It was quite odd, he realized, trying not to stare too long at her frizzy brown curls, quite odd how comfortably they'd settled into this peculiar arrangement.

She'd owl him a couple days in advance, he'd clear his schedule for the evenings, and she'd show up on his doorstep, armed with a clipboard and a stack of notes and graphics for him. Some days they'd talk about all things beige, from the turn of the weather, to the flavor of the tea, but always their conversation would shift to more serious issues: the state of Scorpius' health , the advances of muggle science, and then finally, the bulk of their business: Hermione's advances in curing Scorpius.

"The changeling is adapting well to the new treatment," Hermione was saying on this particular day, as she handed over a graph to Draco's outstretched hand. "Vital signs stable, lab work is looking good. There's been a five percent improvement in the subject's liver function tests." She reached over his arm to point to the highlighted row, awkwardly trying to untangle their intertwining limbs. Malfoy cleared his throat, shifting slightly away from her as he examined the report.

"Triglycerides went down, ferritin went down," murmured Draco, "Significantly." His long fingers turned the page quickly, barely giving them a flick. He looked up, his mouth quirked upward, forming a rare smile. "This is good."

"It is," Hermione said warmly. She clapped her hands together in a single, crisp clap. "I'd say that if there's no decline in its health in the next month or two, we can start Scorpius on the treatment- dosage adjusted, of course."

Draco's eyes tightened. He pulled back. "Granger, you realize you only have a year left."

"I know, but we're still on schedule."

"I respect your expertise, your knowledge, your experience in this field. But Granger," he looked away now, his eyes and, she suspected, his mind far off, "I can't help but think we're running out of time."

She bit her lip, her confidence leaving her. She admitted she felt the same- that time was like sand and it was slipping, slithering from the cracks between her fingers. She'd seen Scorpius, she'd seen the weak tremors in his movements, heard an old creakiness in his joints as he moved, felt the recurring hotness of his forehead against her hand. Maybe her calculations were wrong, she thought with a twinge of doubt. Maybe her algorithm was off, somehow.

She wanted to assure Draco. _Malfoy_, she corrected herself, wondering why all of a sudden she'd called him that in her own mind. She paused, her mind flickering elsewhere now. She didn't need anyone second-guessing her abilities; she didn't need an assault on her reputation as a scientist. And, she admitted, she also didn't need the worry she was beginning to feel for Scorpius. She'd only felt a smidgen of worry for him since she'd taken on this project- worry that was clinical and curious, worry from the mind of a scientist. But now she was nervous that Malfoy's paternal worry would infect her like a virus, steadily but slowly, and _no_\- she shook her head to herself- she didn't want anything to do with that.

"I'll be in touch, then," she said hastily, rising from her chair, or rather, _Malfoy's _chair. His chair, not hers, though it felt like it was becoming hers- she left dents in it from where she sat, and each week she would attempt to smooth its now-familiar wrinkles.

He walked her out, as he did every week. But this time he asked her where she was going.

"Oh," she said, looking away from him. She squinted at the sun, now level with the horizon. She clutched her handbag tightly, feeling the crunch of the plastic moulding from beneath the handles. "Somewhere I go to sometimes, somewhere that doesn't concern you, really." She flushed. "Forgive me, that was a bit rude."

Draco's brows lifted. "I think I've grown accustomed to your rudeness by now, Granger."

She sensed his curiosity, knew he wanted an answer, and instead of answering frostily as she was apt to, some part of her had come unhinged and so she answered.

"To the cemetery," she said simply. "To visit my parent's graves."

She expected indifference from him, or a polite nod, some minimal acknowledgement of her answer so he could go back inside to the comforts of his home.

But instead he asked, "Would you care for company?"

She hesitated before answering, though in the pause she didn't really take time to _think_ about it. She was thinking more about the interested tone of his voice, the way his eyes met hers earnestly, than whether or not this was a good idea.

"Yes."

Draco blinked in surprise, but nonetheless followed her out of his home. He quietly shut his door, murmuring a spell to lock it.

"Side-along-apparition, I'm assuming?"

"Of course," she answered, and, though she was not looking at him, felt his long arm loop in through the crook of her elbow.

A full heartbeat of silence passed between them before the loud _crack _came and took them away.

* * *

**A/N: Hello! I'm back, after a semester of slaving away reading textbooks. Sorry to tease y'all with such a short chapter.. I have more Dramione written, it'll be up fairly soon, I promise! Anyways, as always, I welcome feedback, favorites, and reviews! **

**Until next time... xoxo, Besos**


	21. A Grave Encounter, A Welcome Seduction

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

* * *

"Let me guess," Hermione said when the world stopped spinning around them. The pair blinked hazily, visions adjusting to the new surroundings. "You've never even set foot inside a cemetery."

He looked at her strangely. "How can you even say that?"

She shrugged, muscles tensing as she wrapped her arms around herself.

"You've been privileged all your life? I wouldn't be surprised if you said no one close to you has died."

"All these assumptions," he muttered. He glared at the setting sun, scanned the grounds through narrowed eyes. "You assume too much, you know. Just because I've grown up privileged doesn't mean I haven't been touched by death. Haven't smelled its stench, haven't averted my eyes as it looked me in the face."

She shook off the guilt, as she always had, though this time it was harder to shake off. "I forgot about Crabbe. I'm sorry."

"Crabbe was a fool," Draco replied. "There are others that are worthier of mourning than my old school mate." He gestured forward to the entrance of trees ahead of them. "We should go." He began walking without her.

"Wrong direction, Malfoy." Hermione pointed east. "They're buried over there."

In silence, they walked across the soft carpet of grass, stepping carefully over graves and fallen petals. They reached a shady spot canopied by evergreen trees. _There is magic here_, Draco sensed. The hair on his neck prickled. _The oldest kind there is._

Hermione reached into her pocket, conjuring a bouquet of white roses.

"It's been five years," she said softly.

She looked sideways at Draco. "Can you leave me here for a little while?"

He nodded in assent and turned his heel. Hermione focused once more on her parents' graves, closing her eyes. She tried to visualize their faces, tried to see their love, shining in their eyes- some utterly _cliché_ phrase someone insipid like Ron would've used. Love shining in their eyes. She snorted. That was a joke. The last thing she remembered seeing in their eyes, and now the only thing she saw, was bitter disappointment.

,

_"I can't believe you had the nerve." Mum's face pinched angrily. "Coming back here, after all this time, after taking our memories away-"_

_"I told you, it was for the best!"_

_"No, Hermione. You don't seem to understand," her father interrupted. He placed his large hand on his wife's quaking shoulders. "It's not a matter of you doing the right thing, coming back here and restoring our memories. It's that you underestimated us, took everything away from us. Dead or alive, even locked up someplace dark and cold and far away in a goddamn prison cell, we would have wanted to remember you, who we were, not be some mindless drones-"_

_"It's not worth it!" Hermione screamed, gripping her hair tightly. "You would have been tortured, they would have _killed _you! I've protected you!" She blinked away hot tears. _

_"What are you going to do now, Hermione?" Mum had said. She looked at her sadly, too tired and hurt to argue. "Obliviate us again?"_

_And for a second, Hermione knew she not good. Just not the Gryffindor she was. She was tempted, now that her mum brought it up, tempted to bring the wand from her pocket into her fingers, tempted to give it a swish and Obliviate the last fifteen minutes from her parents' memories. She yearned to restart this conversation, to beg for forgiveness, to be loveable again. She could have said, "Yes, Mum, yes Dad, you're absolutely right, and I'm wrong, and you always were right, please take me back." _

_Her shoulders slumped forward in exhaustion. She was too tired for any this._

_"Maybe you should leave now," Dad was saying, his hand resting on Mum. As though to protect his wife from their daughter._

I am dangerous_, Hermione was reminded again, swallowing her emotions down her throat. _Not like them. Not good.

.

_"_What's not good?" a precocious voice asked, warm breath grazing her ear.

She jumped a mile. "Merlin!" She shoved the boy off of her. It was the muggle boy, here to pester her as usual. "What do you think you're doing? Why are you _always _here?"

"I'm always here." He shrugged his small shoulders. "Maybe I'm a ghost, milling about, haunting cemeteries as I please."

"You're no more of a ghost than I am," Hermione muttered. She glared at him, crossing her arms angrily over her chest. "Now _leave me_."

Muggle boy shrugged again before scrambling off the grass. She breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that he was about to go, when he turned his neck.

"You know," he paused. "You look a lot better. Less haggard, not quite happy, but less empty, more..." his voice trailed off.

"More what?" she snapped.

"Whole."

And as suddenly as he appeared, the muggle boy quickly left, ducking into the shadows of the old trees.

Hermione rubbed her temples. Why was she always interrupted whenever she came to visit, and why always by that boy? He was a fixture in the cemetery, just like the evergreens she was standing under. She was annoyed that she felt more curious than irked by the child. She muttered obscenities to herself, letting out a louder "_Fuck!_" as something touched her shoulder.

She whirled around, wand out and eyes narrowed, expecting the boy, but seeing only Draco. He held his hands up defensively.

"Easy, easy."

"Merlin, Draco!" She lowered the wand, breathing heavily, and stuffed it back in her coat pockets.

"Who is that?" Draco wanted to know.

"He's a muggle," she muttered, "He's always here when I'm here. And I've been here so many times. It's safe to say that he lives here."

"Hmm." A corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "Perhaps he's one of your changelings."

It took her a second to realize he was making a joke.

"Ha ha," she said dryly.

"Or perhaps an old ghost?"

"You know it's not entirely implausible," she pointed out. "Given our world. But no, he's no apparition."

"It's still a strange thought, though, isn't it," he mused. "A cemetery, purely for muggles, inhabited by something supernatural, a ghost. It's like a bridge between two completely opposite worlds. It's funny- as hard as the Ministry tries to impose the barriers between magic and Muggles through endless layers of bureaucracy- always implementing rules, enforcing them, and such- both worlds will eventually mingle on the bridge that is death."

"As much as I like philosophy, Malfoy," Hermione interrupted, "I'm rather sick of being serious at the time being. Something to do with being surrounded by death, I suppose. I like to call it 'The graveyard effect.'"

"Oh?"

"Quite. I need a diversion. Some nonsense in my head, for bloody once."

"Then, me being your honorable guest here," he gestured at the headstones and trees, "I will- for this time only- indulge you."

She cracked a smile.

"So, Granger. What were we talking about before I so rudely spouted out philosophical nonsense- so inconsiderate of me, I know. Oh! Ghosts. We were talking about ghosts. Like the Bloody Baron."

"Or Nearly Headless Nick. Or Moaning Myrtle."

"Moaning Myrtle?"

"You've never heard of Moaning Myrtle?"

"No."

She stared at him in disbelief.

"What is a moaning myrtle? Sounds rather erotic, really." He flashed her a rather leery grin.

"Jesus, Malfoy." She shook her head, amused he was showing her his wicked side. "She's a girl who haunts the girl's bathrooms, always crying or moaning about. None of your Slytherin girls had anything to say about Moaning Myrtle?"

He smirked impishly. "They did. I was just jesting."

She gave him a shove, and quite a forceful one too, but he didn't budge. He remained standing close to her under that old evergreen tree, with that Malfoy smirk on his face.

"It's refreshing, isn't it?" she said, smiling. "To be in a cemetery, making jokes in a place as grave as this?" She sputtered a laugh.

He grimaced mockingly. "Ah, your puns are bloody awful."

She meant to playfully swat his arm away, but her hand caught on an extra wrinkle in his fine dress shirt, and so her pale fingers lingered longer than they should have. A strange tingling sensation radiated in her palms. She was about to remove her hand when he covered hers with his own.

She looked up sharply at him.

"Draco-"

She flushed, embarrassed by the slip-up. "I mean, Malfoy.."

"It's alright," he said softly, "You can call me that if you want."

Her heart, an anvil in her chest, twisted uncomfortably as neither made a sound. She wanted to look away from him, to go back a few minutes ago when things were more playful between them. She wasn't sure what this was, what they were doing- for Chrissakes, they had a business deal! And now they were here, together, _why_? Why had she allowed him to follow her here in such an intimate place to see her stare at the graves of her dead parents? And _why _was he looking at her like that, his eyes no longer the cold grey orbs she was accustomed to, but softened in a way, looking at her with- had she been so disengaged with humans the past several years to mistake that look as- _desire_?

No, she was thinking illogically. But the longer she held his gaze, the longer she looked at those wintry irises, dilated now- _yes, no doubt about that_, she knew, and the scientist within her nodded in confirmation- she knew, or at least, became convinced, that he wanted her.

She wanted to lean into his touch- it would be so easy now; she was cold from the raindrops now falling from the sky, and he was so warm- but instead, she managed to say with numb lips, "It's beginning to rain."

His eyes didn't leave hers, didn't roll upwards to the sky see if she was right. He considered her, trying to gauge what she wanted. She remained frozen, her hand still on his arm, and made no effort to shrug him off. But neither did she move closer to him as he tilted his chin down towards her. Making his mind up quickly, he linked arms with her, effectively putting some distance between them now that they were side-by-side.

"Let's go back to my place," he said.

He waited for her objection.

"Hermione?" he asked her.

It was more than just her name; more than just the fact that he hadn't used her surname. It was a question: the unspoken "_Do you want to.._."

She nodded once. She closed her lids as rain steadily trickled down her brow.

* * *

She felt, rather than saw, that they had arrived. The world had stopped spinning madly.

_Or had it?_ He was still there, right next to her, after all. Looking at her like she was something to eat.

"Hermione," he murmured. Her heart beat wildly as he leaned closer to her. She felt his cool breath on her neck, heard the almost inaudible squish of his shoes as they stepped closer to hers. She didn't look at him but knew that he was close, much too close to her.

"What," she breathed.

"I should let you in," he said, stating the obvious.

She opened her eyes, and saw that he was smiling slightly at her.

"So you should."

Draco laughed. "Come in then, you." The door opened for them, and he resumed the role of the gentleman. "Ladies first."

He helped remove her sopping coat before abandoning it on the floor, a wet heap of fabric on the marble tiles. The servants hurried towards them, alarmed by their sudden arrival, but neither Draco nor Hermione paid much attention. He pulled Hermione into the hallway into a wash-room.

"Let me get you a towel to dry off," he offered, suddenly aware of the absurdity and uselessness of his hands which were idly hanging at his sides.

She smirked when he returned with the monogrammed cotton.

"Oh, Malfoy," she laughed. "I know what this is. Taking advantage of a poor, young girl soaked from the rain. This is a poor shot at seduction."

He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed it would be," he said. "Very poor indeed." He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, his voice darkening, thick and rich like chenille. "But you're not a young girl, are you."

"I'm not, am I?" she said teasingly, but her smirk vanished as he pressed the fabric into her hands, his fingers brushing lightly against her own. She inhaled his heady scent, determined to hide her sudden nervousness. That tingly feeling was back, the feeling that hovered as they had stood beneath the evergreen trees.

He never broke eye contact from her as he moved closer. He brushed off a stray drop of water off from her dewy skin, and slowly, his fingers trailed down from her neck. Hands curving along the slope of her shoulders, gliding down to her clavicles. They rested there, his warmth pressing against her cold skin, against her bones.

_Angel bones_, he thought.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered, nervous that he was staring at her so intently. She didn't pull away. She enjoyed the sensation of his thumbs circling her skin too much.

"Honestly?"

He lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers.

"This," he murmured, and pulled away slightly.

She rolled her hips against his. "Kiss me then," she breathed.

Their lips met searchingly, and then hungrily clashed together. Seamlessly, Draco hitched her leg around his and swung her around, pressing her against the mirrored wall. He pressed his hardness against her soft body, finding that they fit perfectly. Her nails dug into his sides but he didn't mind; she clutched his waist tightly as she moved against him. His eyes briefly opened, taking in the sight of the messy halo of hair, the pale skin, the dark lashes, the perfect tilt of her head, of her open mouth, lips searching.

He tugged her hips even closer to his. Their hands wandered greedily. Hers, running along the expanse of his chest, then along the length of his long body; his, dipping along her curves, dipping everywhere.

Hermione's lips curved upwards, a sigh escaping her throat as his hands went further down, slipping under her jeans, his fingers toying with elastic. She inhaled sharply, hissing as she felt his nails raking over her clothing. She pushed his hands closer to her- wanting to close whatever semblance of distance was between them- when the door creaked open.

"Daddy?"

They flew apart, eyes averted, faces flushed. Awkwardly, Draco turned to his young son.

"I'm sorry, love, I didn't see you there."

Scorpius peered at Hermione, who was flustered, straightening her clothes. She bent down to retrieve the towel she had dropped earlier.

"What were you doing with Dr. Granger?"

"We were just hugging," his father said hastily. He tugged Scorpius' hand, pulling him away. "Let's go see if supper is ready, come."

"But Daddy," Hermione heard the boy complain, "Supper's not ready until another hour." She waited for their voices to fade away before she sunk to the tiled floor, hands cradling her head.

What on Merlin's name was she doing, snogging Malfoy? Pressed up against Malfoy? The pinched-face boy who, she admitted, had grown up to become a very attractive man? And he _was _very attractive; she couldn't deny the way his presence made her feel. And the pleasure he brought to her. Shakily, she touched her lips, still so swollen and warm.

Admittedly, she hadn't kissed anyone in over a year, so of course she was sensitive to his ministrations. She pulled herself up from the floor, and absent-mindedly, began to dry herself with the towel. It felt good, she admitted, being in his arms. She had felt protected, something she didn't need, really, since she learned from the war that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. But still. It was a nice feeling.

He made her feel wanted. Desired. The small groan she'd coaxed from his lips, the hardness she'd felt against her thigh verified that. Perhaps he felt just as pleasured as she had.

She let herself smile, calmer now. It wasn't exactly a mistake, she resolved. Perhaps it wasn't ideal, that she now knew what he felt like and tasted like; certainly she would remember it from time to time whenever they would next meet. But she could compartmentalize it, couldn't she? It wouldn't interfere with her work. She was level-headed, logical enough. She could take care of herself.

When he returned, she was fully dry, thanks to the towel and, of course- she had almost forgotten to use it- a drying-off charm.

He had composed himself, too, his eyes no longer hooded with desire, but watchful.

"It's alright," she spoke before he could say anything. "Don't worry, I won't let this distract me from helping your son."

He nodded, looking like he wanted to say something. She waited for him patiently, but he remained silent. She excused herself, murmuring that she would see him in a week.

* * *

**A/N: Wooo! That was a lot to process, wasn't it? Lots of Dramione in this chapter, as promised :) And I hope you all didn't feel too uncomfortable with the material here- I just changed the rating to M (More M-ness to follow)! Any thoughts? Critiques? This is my first time writing a full romantic scene... any feedback would be helpful. Thanks! Xoxo, Besos**


	22. Impulsion

_**DISCLAIMER: All content is derived from J.K. Rowling! Harry Potter Universe belongs to her, I just try to embellish what I can. :-)**_

* * *

Hermione's sensible mary-jane pumps clicked against the kitchen tiles as she paced back and forth. She wrung her hands, letting out a strangled groan- an unusual occurrence, as she was usually very calm.

She stopped short in front of her kitchen table, staring at the source of her agitation.

It was a simple bouquet of white roses, magicked into a soft wicking glow that reminded her of a candlelight.

It was a simple gift- but one that caused her confusion.

Yes, there was that kiss they had shared less than a week ago. She hadn't heard from him since, no summons from him to discuss her work. The fact that they'd kissed and he hadn't been in touch with her put her on edge.

So, the kiss. But, the flowers? Why?

She tried to rationalize what other reasons he may have had for sending her flowers other than the most obvious one- the one that couldn't possibly be true- romantic interest. Maybe it was as a thank you gift for all her hard work? But no, she reasoned. He was paying her a handsome sum for it. A flower arrangement would hardly be necessary. Or perhaps it was out of pity, because she had taken him to the cemetery, and his eyes had swept over her parents' graves, intruding on her privacy.

Or, she thought nervously, maybe, just maybe it was because they had kissed.

She picked up the neatly printed note that had come with the bouquet. _Seven at my place? _was all it said.

She licked her lips nervously as she shakily put it down. The sudden invitation, the unusual circumstance in which he delivered it... to go or not to go, that's what it came down to, she supposed. It didn't take her long for her to make up her mind.

* * *

This time she flooed in. Why it had taken her so long to use magical transportation again, she didn't know. She supposed it had something to do with her reentrance into the magical world, thanks to Malfoy's commission. She shook her feet behind her as she stepped from the fireplace.

"I didn't know you'd be coming in from the floo," Malfoy said, nonplussed, sipping a cup of tea as she awkwardly clambered out in front of him. "Left the channels open for anyone I trusted, but didn't figure you would use it."

"I suppose I got tired of using the front door." Hermione bit back a small smile, pleased that she seemingly won his trust. "Wanted to change things up."

"So you have." He rose from his seat, and politely took her coat. With a snap of the fingers, a house elf appeared, taking the coat from him while murmuring a greeting to Hermione.

She sat across from him, self-conscious of how intensely he stared at her. "I received your bouquet," she said with dry lips. "It was lovely. Thank you."

He bowed slightly. "You don't have to thank me. I wanted to do that for you."

She flushed, not quite knowing what to say. Yet she refused to go back to being awkward with him, so she spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"The flowers were a surprise."

His mouth twitched. "Did you like it?"

"I did," she admitted. "The only thing is, well, I don't know what they mean."

He laughed at that. "Is that what you came for, then? To ask me what they meant?"

She nodded stiffly.

"I want you to say it."

"Yes," she said after a pause. "Yes, I came here for that."

He stretched, feline-like, long limbs and satisfied smirk. "Well then. Since you've asked so nicely. I sent you flowers because that's what a man does when he wants to court a woman. A long-standing practice and tradition, you see."

"So I take it to mean," she said, feeling on edge, "That you mean to court me?"

"No."

She blinked.

"If what you mean courting as all hearts and flowers and the eventual diamond ring, no. I'm not that old-fashioned. I do have something else in mind."

He reached for her, curling her fingers, crushing her fist with his hands.

Hermione wondered, briefly, as her limbs locked with his, and as she felt the sudden heat from his skin flooding into her body, if her eagerness showed in her eyes. She didn't want it to. She didn't want to seem much more eager than he, but she was starved for human contact. It was almost impossible to stop herself from holding back the sigh that escaped her lips all too readily. She found herself clinging to him like a vine branch to a tree. A sort of electric ferocity betook them, magnet-like, and he could not release her, nor could she detach from him.

She felt good in his arms, Draco realised. Too good. He rarely acted on impulse, but something in her provoked him to. Dared him to sink his teeth in her flesh. Suckle her neck. Make her moan. It was the flashing dark eyes, he reasoned. He lazily twirled a strand of her curls, her head cradled snugly within the crook of his arm.

He found his mind to be racing hundreds of kilmetres per hour, as it was apt to. He cursed himself for not completely relaxing and enjoying the moment.

He tried to hold his breath, not trusting the violent _whoosh_ of breath on exhalation, but found himself breathing in her scent, of faint vanilla and cinnamon. He pulled the lock of hair tighter around his finger, encircling it round and round, letting it form a band on his finger.

_Like a ring._

He glanced up sharply, sensing Hermione's gaze upon him. She was staring at him with those wide eyes, and he had a sudden suspicion that she was thinking those thoughts, too.

"Draco-" she began, but didn't finish. Her lips parted, perhaps to say something else, but he claimed her lips, stealing away her breath. Smoothly, his palms glided down her shoulders to her curves, wrapping around the softness of her body. She responded enthusiastically, making small sounds of pleasure as their bodies contorted, their limbs tangling fervently.

Somehow, they had managed to sink onto his duvet- how, they did not know. The only things they were aware of were their quick, rapid breathing, the heavy scent of arousal, the glimmer of excitement in their eyes, and the heat- the scorching heat emanating from every pore of their bodies.

He'd pinned her down, at some point or another. Hermione opened her eyes briefly, noticing that he pinned her arms above her head with one hand as he used the other to roughly palm her breasts. She couldn't help but throw her head back and let out a soft groan, gripping his head tighter to her chest as his tongue flicked lightly, serpentine over her nipples.

"Stop," she rasped, unable to take the overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing over her. She pushed him away, yet wanting nothing more than to let him keep kissing her- but it was too much, felt too good, was too soon. He was relentless, though- his strength overpowered hers, and with increased vigour he suckled so hard on her nipple that his teeth grazed over her breasts, sending a rippling sensation down Hermione's spine.

She managed to shove his shoulders away from her, shushing his protests with a finger to his swollen lips. "What-"

"Trust me," she breathed, and she pushed him down, now straddling him.

She felt his hardness against her immediately. She wrapped her legs around him, deliberately sinking down against him, smiling as he let out a hiss. Experimentally, she pressed her lips to the base of this throat, and swept her mouth over his neck, the angle of his jaw, sweeping up to his earlobe. She paused there, noticing Draco stiffen. She lingered over his neck, just below the earlobe, and sucked on his skin, feeding on the warmth of his flesh. She smiled in satisfaction as he let out a strangled sound, his fingers gripping her arms tightly. He roughly flipped her on her back, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

"Is this what you want?" he breathed against her lips, and they kissed, and she became unhinged. She pushed her hips forward in assent, enjoying the sensation of his tongue rolling, flicking against hers. She moaned, letting the sound be her _yes. _

She could feel a piece of herself falling away, but surprisingly, she didn't mind in the slightest.

* * *

**A/N: As promised... here's some more Dramione! Leave a review if you liked it! Enjoy yourselves- a wild ride is comin' up ;) xoxo, Besos**


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